


Cut Myself on Angel Hair and Baby's Breath

by Alcoholic_Kangaroo



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, F/F, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pedophilia, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 88,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29162412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_Kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_Kangaroo
Summary: Repost. That one where Stan is a pedophile.Abandoned and unfinished fic.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, Leopold "Butters" Stotch/Wendy Testaburger, Stan Marsh/Leopold "Butters" Stotch
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I had...multiple people contact me asking about the whereabouts of this fic. I hate this fic. I don't even want to look at it. But I also know that feeling of having a fic deleted by an author and how you wish you could get it back. So I'm putting it back up for now, but I can't guarantee I won't delete it again eventually and I have not even looked at it so any formatting errors and shit are just gonna be around. I literally just copy/pasted it from the mastercopy on my computer...though it wouldn't load under one long chapter so I did split it into two.

Stan Marsh first started drinking shortly after his tenth birthday. That was the year the depression first set in. Nobody recognized it for what it was. Nobody told him he had depression. Nobody seemed to want to bother to notice he was deeply unhappy. And he didn't understand at that age why alcohol seemed to help him feel normal once again, how could he?

Ten-year-old Stan didn't know how neurotransmitters and endorphins and serotonin worked. He didn't know that the world had suddenly become unbearable because of some fucked up chemistry he was unfortunate enough to inherit from his father, and his grandfather before that. He didn't understand that it was genetic, that he was predestined with depression from his mother's side and addiction from his father's. He didn't understand any of that. Not until his abnormal psychology class his second year of college, and even then it was only a vague understanding. Still, a better understanding than that of a pre-teen boy just trying to take away the inexplicable sadness in his life.

Sometimes, when he's spending another long night alone in his tiny apartment, he still gets angry about what happened back then. He was ten! He didn't deserve any of that. He dwells on it in during the darker, colder days of winter when he's stuck inside with just his brain and his booze. Old memories accompanied by sore wounds that still feel fresh enough to bleed. Sometimes he needs to tear open the wounds and worry at them like an old bloodhound with a bone.

His friends abandoned him so easily. Such little push had been needed on their part for him to be dropped like an unwanted dog on a back road. Left to cry and whimper alone in the great outdoors. Just because he spent too much time weeping in his room and complaining about how the world had lost its shine. How long did it take for them to just let him go? A week? Less? No wonder he had kept his misery to himself throughout high school, because, by then, even alcohol didn't help. But back in elementary school, before his fucked up excuse for hormones had kicked in, he would've given anything to return everything to normal, to be back with his friends, and alcohol made that possible. Alcohol to a child is a magical substance, not just water and barley and hops gone sour. 

He contemplates this fact uneasily as he watches the boys from Kyle's La-Z-Boy.

They're ten, eleven. Older than he was at the time. Old enough to get their hands on alcohol if they wanted. It'd be so easy to pocket a PBR from Kenny's fridge when he was out, or to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night and steal one of Kyle's He'Brews.

He watches them, a bottle dangling precariously from two fingers. It feels as if it's about to fall from his grasp. Part of Stan wants it to. If the bottle falls from his fingertips, shatters on the floor, maybe there won't be another to replace it. Maybe that could be the start to the long, hard road to sobriety he should've started walking down over twenty years ago.

More likely, he'll just stain Heidi's rug and she'll be pissy towards him. Not that it's anything new. She always has been pissy with him, ever since that day in eighth grade when she had realized Kyle was more in love with Stan than he would ever be with her. Not that the three of them have ever spoken of it. Not that Stan and Kyle had spoken of it in years. Or ever, really. Not in a concrete way. Not in a way that hadn't just consisted of Kyle's soft voice saying his name pleadingly, his lips quivering.

Stan brings the beer to his lips, tasting the rim but not tipping it back. It doesn't have a smell. Or rather, it does, it smells like his breath, so all he's smelling is his own exhaled air wafting back towards him. It's a good beer. Some pale ale from a local brewery. Not the special release stuff you can get from the actual tasting room, but a common find at the local Whole Foods.

Kyle always buys Stan local beer, never touching it himself. Predictably, Kyle has grown to be more of a red wine connoisseur and all beer tastes the same to him. That's so like Kyle. Refined hair, refined nose, refined eyes, refined liquor. But he always makes sure there's at least a six-pack of good beer in the fridge for Stan. For his best friend. For the love of his life who cannot love him back. He made Stan his son's godfather for heaven's sake, you'd think the least Stan could do is love him back the right way. Though if he could then his godson wouldn't have existed in the first place.

Stan supposes he could've had a life with Kyle. If he had been willing to push aside everything about himself and live a lie. If he could fake being normal. Instead, Kyle married Heidi and popped out two little Broflovskis to fill the void in his life. Stan could also be outside with Kyle right now, helping him with the food. Instead, Stan sits in the too-warm living room and watches the sweat drip down their foreheads. Something about their secretions seems so much more pristine than the sweat of adults. More pure ocean water, less acid rain.

There is a large handful of them gathered in front of the television and they remind him of both of them, Kyle as well as himself, at that age. Caleb would by Kyle, obviously. Would Liam be Kenny? No, maybe Butters. Liam is much meeker than his father. His large, blue eyes much more mournful.

He wonders what that makes him, sitting there watching them with a beer in his hand. His own father? Christ, he hopes not. His friends had hated when his father hung around watching them play games. He had been so awkward, so behind the times. But he always tried to seem cool. Bringing out his acoustic guitar when they just wanted to play Guitar Hero, or putting on Tween Wave in the kitchen so one of them would compliment his taste in music. Even when they were fourteen and hadn't listened to that crap in over two years.

He hopes he isn't embarrassing Caleb. He knows he should go find Kyle and Kenny outside, help with the barbecue instead of hanging around a bunch of pre-teen boys. He's better with a barbecue than either of them. Kyle can never get the charcoal to catch. Kenny can, but he's developed a phobia of fire in his old age. He could go out there and get the entire thing going with one match and a newspaper ad, have Kyle crowing with triumph as he stands too close to him, maybe bumping his shoulder in a sad attempt at physical contact with his old friend.

He stays where he is.

“This game is so old,” a dark-haired boy complains as the little mustachioed man on-screen dies yet again. He slams the Wii controller onto the couch beside him.“Why are we playing this? It sucks.”

“It's not old, it's retro,” Caleb bitches back at the other boy.

Stan feels something akin to pride swell in his chest. Those are exactly the words Stan had used to describe the game when he had first downloaded Super Mario Brothers 3 onto the Broflovski's Wii U. Caleb didn't get what the big deal was at first (the graphics aren't even good!) but by the end of the first world, he was grabbing the controller back from Stan's hands as soon as it was his turn. It had made Stan feel proud. Since Caleb was a toddler wandering around on ridiculously-short legs Stan had enjoyed introducing him to new things. Music, video games, food. Now, it makes him feel giddy to hear his godson repeating his words to his friends, like he's worth repeating. Like he's not like a useless old man wandering into the living room with a guitar.

“Same fucking thing,” a third boy, this one a brunette, replies. He looks like Cartman, he sounds like Cartman, he's this group's Cartman. But he isn't related to Cartman. His father's a few years older than Stan, was already in high school when they were in sixth grade. But it still feels like history is repeating itself. “Retro is just what old people call old games to make themselves feel better for being too incompetent to learn how to play new ones.”

“You're just pissed off you can't beat it,” Caleb says, picking up the controller. They're on World 6, these boys haven't even seen World 8 yet and they're jumping ship. Boys today! God. Boys of any age. Have they always been so astounding?

Caleb knows what is waiting for them in World 8, he has beaten the entire game with Stan. Well, he's watched Stan beat it anyway, dying repeatedly and not completing many levels after the first part of world five. He's getting better though.

Despite his confident tone, Caleb dies quickly on a Muncher and passes the controller to Liam. This boy is fairer and quieter than his friends, keeping his head down and accepting the controller with only a quiet “Thank you.” A year younger than the other boys, Liam McCormick lacks their confidence. Which really is a shame. He's a bright kid, amazing in school. Skipped ahead a year back in second grade when it became apparent he was far, far ahead of his classmates in terms of intellectual progress, if lacking in social. From what Kenny says, it sounds like he'll be skipping another grade by the time he reaches high school.

Still, he's not intelligent in the way Caleb is. He lacks any common sense or social charisma. Caleb oozes both, along with sporting straight A's. But he has to work for those A's. Heidi, or sometimes Kyle but mostly Heidi, drills him for hours at the kitchen table to make sure he aces every test. There's no way Liam gets that sort of attention in the McCormick household.

The blond speed runs through the level like he's beaten it a hundred times, which he probably has. Kenny has never been able to buy his kids the newest systems. Maybe if he didn't insist on having a new child every two years. Poor Liam is like a prized jewel trying to shine out through a layer of rocks, too covered in dust to be seen for what he really is. He has two older siblings and three younger, an assortment of genders.

The brunette takes the controller next but, like Caleb, dies almost immediately. The dark-haired boy rejects his own turn, claiming the game is stupid. Is that the Stan in the group? The Stan who appeared after his tenth birthday, full of bitterness and spite?

“Do you want to play, Uncle Stan?” Caleb offers, turning to hold out the controller to him. He startles, nearly dropping his beer. He didn't feel like an active participant in this room. He's an observer. A buzzed observer. He needs another beer.

Stan reaches for the controller, his fingers touching his godson's for just a second. He doesn't allow himself more than that one second of physical contact. He hasn't allowed himself much more than that since the boy turned eight. Not when he has alcohol in his system, anyway, which is most of the time. That was the year that Stan suddenly found himself becoming aroused from his godson's innocent hugs.

Mentally, Stan knows that Caleb isn't the most attractive boy in the world. Hell, he's not even the most attractive boy in this room. Liam blows him out of the water with his angelic face and feathery golden hair. But that doesn't matter to his fucked up excuse for a brain. Because when he looks at Caleb all he sees is a softer projection of his father at that age, with prettier skin and more luxurious red curls. He has Kyle's coloring and his angular cheekbones but the overall image has been softened by Heidi's heart-shaped face and straight hair.

And Stan has no memory of Kyle ever having such soft-looking skin. He hates to say it, he knows even in his mind it's about as stereotypical as you can get, but this boy is the definition of peaches and cream. It has to be the redhead skin, the coloring that blonds and brunettes are just incapable of achieving. It's been a long time since he's looked at Kyle and felt breathless like this.

God, why can't he feel like this towards Kyle? Wouldn't that be so, so much easier?

He wishes he could've given Kyle what he really wanted, all those years ago. He could've faked it, couldn't he? But Kyle's his best friend, his BFF, he'd know if Stan was just going through the motions.

Except he doesn't seem to notice that that's all that Stan is doing these days. He feels like a Sim on Free Will, without a player at the keyboard. Wash your hands. Order a pizza. Talk to the random guy jogging by your house. Do kids even play The Sims anymore? Is he showing his age?

Stan sits up and moves Mario onto the next level, selecting it. It feels weird playing this on a Wii-mote so he moves slowly at first, getting used to the controls as the pixelated character slides over the ice. But muscle memory kicks in after the first thirty seconds and he makes it through the level on one life, directing his fingers more by habit than anything else since he's played this game enough times to beat it with his eyes closed. The Wii controller feels blocky in his hands, not as good as the stream-lined SNES controller, but maybe better than the NES. He hands it back to Liam.

“I should probably go see what your fathers are up to,” he says, standing up. None of the boys turn their eyes to him but Caleb tilts his head back obediently to allow the hair ruffling Stan always graces him with whenever he walks by him. He's been ruffling the kid's hair since he's had hair to ruffle. It's getting long, he observes guiltily. He likes it when it's longer, it makes him look softer. His mother will cut it short soon, as she always does in the summer to help keep him cool. It seems like an almost violent act the way she does it, chopping it so close to the scalp that Stan is surprised he never finds nicks in the skin. But for now it curls down to the nape of his neck and over his ears in looser ringlets than Kyle's tight curls. His locks are soft as silk between Stan's fingers. He barely allows time for the curls to spill between his fingers before he walks away.

They've already got the barbecue going. It smells like lighter fluid. They probably doused the damn coals with it to get them to catch.

“Don't put anything on it yet,” Stan warns Kyle, who's already reaching for the burger patties. “It'll taste like lighter fluid.”

“Done playing video games with the children?” Kyle teases, his eyes brightening at the sight of Stan. He's wearing a long apron with the words Matzo Matzo Man on the front. Stan had bought him the thing years ago, drunk shopping online, totally forgetting he had ordered it until it had shown up on his doorstep. It was too stupid to not give to Kyle after that. “I swear you come over here to just see my kids.”

That's not true. Stan doesn't come here to see Kyle's kids. Just one of them. Noah is an awful child; spoiled, pampered, and prone to temper tantrums. Caleb was never like that.

“I did come over to see your kids,” Stan snarks back. “It's not your birthday, last time I checked.”

“If it was my birthday the kids would be at their grandparents',” Kyle snickers. “I wish it was my birthday.”

“Yeah, your two children are so horrible,” Kenny interrupts. “I don't know how you did it. Lilith got sent home last week because she set a squirrel on fire on the playground. And we had to go in for a talk with Rocky's teacher because he keeps pulling down the pants of other little boys.”

Stan feels something in his stomach stir. Not the slosh of too much beer but something more subtle. He's heard of trigger words before, usually having to do with drugs or self-mutilation or PTSD. Stan has a lot of trigger words and those two together are one of them. Little boys. Which is ridiculous. Rocky is five and looks barely four. Much too young to pique Stan's interest. He can't help but react to the words though. Just like he can't not react to the words delicate, or waif, or Caleb.

As usual, he's left feeling like shit. He leaves the two of them to return to the kitchen to dig another beer from the fridge. Heidi is in there, trying to make potato salad from the looks of it. It makes a disgusting, mushy, sucking noise. He hates that noise. He had since he was a child, when a strange man had once described the sound of fornicating with a corpse in terms of fisting mayonnaise

“Noah, please, mommy's busy.” Heidi is trying to push away her younger son as gently as she can but he clings to her leg like a leech. Stan can't help but feel bad for the boy, despite how much of a pain he may sometimes be. He's a momma's boy, much more so than Caleb, and he doesn't like leaving her side. He'll be taller than Caleb someday if the wall chart keeps at its current pace, and heavier with his solid build, but for now his fingers are stubby on his mother's legs.

“Caleb won't play with me,” he whines.

“Caleb is playing with his friends,” she tells him, not even looking down at her child. God, the poor thing. How could anybody just ignore a boy hanging onto them like that? Even a boy as plain and unlovable as Noah? “Go play with Rocky and Starla.”

“I don't want to,” he whines, and for a moment his voice takes on an accent so reminiscent of Cartman's that Stan again feels helplessly nostalgic. “They're mean to me.” He clutches more tightly to her leg, nearly tripping her as she tries to go to the fridge. The fridge Stan is standing in front of, about to open in search of another drink. She glares at him in annoyance, as if he's the one weighing her down. He steps out of her way meekly, waiting for her to grab another bottle of unopened mayonnaise

“Why don't you go play with your Uncle Stan instead?” she suggests. “You know him well enough.”

Stan wonders if she means that as a barb for his frequent presence at her house. Here he is, just mooching off free alcohol and food, not even helping with the barbecue. He doesn't want to play with Noah, he's more baby than boy, but the preschooler is already turning to Stan with a hopeful look on his face. He wipes at his nose with his hand, remnants of a recent tantrum from the looks of it. Poor Noah. He's just in no way nearly as fortunate as his big brother. He looks more like Heidi than Kyle, inheriting her bland brown hair and drab features. Noah, also like his mother, lacks any real definition in the cheekbones or chin, as if somebody had created both mother and son in Photoshop and accidentally dragged the Smudge tool across their faces.

“Come on kiddo,” he says, reaching for his hand, trying to hide his disgust. Such fat, sticky fingers. “Let's go find something to do.”

Noah wants to play outside because that's where his daddy is. Noah loves Kyle but not like he loves his mother. He seems to see Kyle as this sort of distant mythical figure that he likes to observe but not necessarily interact with. Noah takes Stan over to his sandbox and they play with some Tonka trucks in the sand, the little boy making sure he's facing his father so he can watch him at all times. His fascination with his father is so strange. Caleb had never been like that with him, Kyle had been a very hands-on father with that boy. Stan wonders if Heidi withholds her son from his father on purpose. Maybe the fact he looks like her makes her more possessive of him. Eventually, Rocky joins them in the sandbox, and Stan is able to sneak off while they're arguing about whether the castle needs a moat or not.

They eat before presents. As usual, Kyle provides a variety of vegetarian options fresh off the grill, including veggie burgers and portobello caps. Stan takes one of both, along with a generous helping of some of the steamed mussels Heidi brings out from the kitchen. He doesn't eat any other type of seafood, even shrimp have little eyes, little lives to cherish. He hadn't even eaten mussels or clams for over a decade until a couple years ago, when he had read a few persuasive arguments on the morality of eating bivalves, and had found himself warming to the idea. Kenny had laughed at the addition to his diet, asking if Stan requested forgiveness from the creatures before sticking them in a pot. Kyle had just agreed with him and started sprouting off information on nitrates in the water. Soon after, the shellfish started showing up regularly at Broflovski family events. Despite the fact that Kyle and Heidi keep an otherwise kosher household.

“Those look gross,” Caleb tells him. He's sitting across from Stan. Stan was already sitting at the picnic table when Caleb took that spot, the boy seeking him out even though he's surrounded by friends and family. Stan had smiled at him, hoping he doesn't see it as more than a friendly acknowledgment. He should've tried to look uninterested in the boy, as if one of his less attractive friends had taken a seat next to him instead, but Caleb is the only thing in the world that forces a smile to his face. “Aren't they just like, eating snails?”

“Snails are pretty good too,” Stan says. Or that's what he remembers anyway. He ate them once when he was fourteen, at some fancy French restaurant where they had gone out to celebrate Shelley's graduation. He has a couple of snails in his fish tank at home now. They're cute, with their little feelers on top of their heads. He likes to watch them but sometimes it makes him feel guilty about the ones he ate.

“Gross,” Caleb makes a face. When he wrinkles his nose the tiny scattering of freckles on one side becomes difficult to see. Stan uses the little two-pronged fork to pry out another mussel. It's been steamed in butter and white wine, the only way Heidi knows how to make them. He pops it in his mouth and feels proud of himself for getting his iron for the day. He gives blood regularly, he always needs iron. “Can I try one?”

“They're not kosher,” Stan reminds him. Not that Heidi is that super strict about her children being kosher in general. At home, yes, but Stan had seen Caleb eat bacon and shrimp out at restaurants. She only converted when she married Kyle and she lets her children have more leeway than Sheila had with Kyle. “They were also cooked in wine.”

“Wine's gross too,” Caleb says. He picks up his burger and takes a bite of that instead. It smells good but it's been so many years since Stan tasted red meat he barely remembers the taste of it. Better than he doesn't. If he remembers what real meat tastes like it will just make his veggie burger less palatable. It had taken him awhile to get used to eating them. His first one had been at the school cafeteria in college, the first semester of his first year. They're always better when somebody else makes them. He never buys the take-home variety.

“Can I try one?” Liam asks from Caleb's side. He only has one burger, the other boys all have two. But he has more potato salad than the other boys. Stan picks out a small mussel from his plate and moves it onto Liam's plate. Best not to give him a large one if it's his first. The texture can be weird if you've never had them. Liam opens the shell wider and looks at the yellowed blob in the middle, unsure what to do with it. He was watching Stan eat his but it can be confusing from a distance. But this one is already detached from the shell and comes out easily when he pokes at it with his fork. He chews slowly, mashing the bivalve between his teeth longer than necessary.

“It's okay,” he decides after swallowing. “But not something I'd order for a meal.”

“They're an acquired taste,” Stan tells him. He finishes the last of them before picking up one of his own burgers, starting with the portobello cap. He chews each bite slowly, listening to others talk around him. Kyle gets up at one point, touching Stan's shoulder as he passes, and returns with a diet soda for himself and another beer for Stan. He touches him again, pausing at his side as if waiting for something. Stan thanks him for the drink but doesn't look up.

After lunch is the cake cutting. They do the same old trick they do ever year with the candles that won't go out and Caleb plays along, laughing as he blows and blows and blows. It's a pretty gross tradition really, blowing out candles. Just getting your breath all over the food people are about to eat. Not that Stan minds in this particular instance but if, say, Kenny was blowing all over his food, he wouldn't want to eat it. Would be too disgusted to do so. How do kids survive their childhood years without some horrible infection transmitted via saliva? Can someone get mono from cake?

There are eleven candles on the cake. They alternate between blue and green, but the one in the middle is larger and red. That one stays blown out.

Eleven. What an age. A great age, and a horrible age. Stan's favorite age. But it's all downhill from here. Stan watches his godson, trying to remember this moment. Burn it into the synapses in his brain. Caleb will never be turning eleven again. He's so beautiful like this, so delicate and ethereal, the sun glowing in his hair, his eyes sparkling with laughter. Heidi smashes a piece of cake against his face. It's a small piece but it gets frosting all over his nose and chin.

Caleb tries to lick it off. His tongue small and pink and innocent. Too small to reach everywhere. Stan wants to help him. He'd gladly lick cake off the side of Caleb's smooth-skinned cheek. He imagines holding onto his slender shoulders, keeping him in place, as he drags his wide tongue along the corner of the boy's mouth. Would Caleb gasp in surprise? Or laugh at the sensation? Could he get away with doing that right now, if he treated it as a joke? If it was wet and sloppy and dog-like rather than intimate and sensual? Would he even be able to taste his boy skin under all that sugar?

Stan is getting hard. Despite the beer in his system. He wishes he got whiskey dick like most men. It helps, some. Stops it from reaching full hardness, staying in that rubbery half-hard stage, but he tries to adjust his position, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees to block the view of his crotch. Heidi is wiping at Caleb's face with a napkin. Stan wants to do that. Wants to grab that pointed little chin and tilt it up as he cleans him as lovingly as a mother cat cleans her kittens.

The cake isn't that great. Store bought. Probably some local grocery store, not even Whole Foods. It's disappointing. Caleb is turning eleven today. This is a one of a kind day. And his mother couldn't even bother with a decent cake?

His presents are equally disappointing. A few books, dominoes, and a board game from his friends. Clothes and a couple small gifts from his parents. Mostly clothes, because Heidi is big on giving clothes to the kids for birthdays and Christmas. Like clothes aren't something you just need anyway. Giving a child clothes for their birthday is the equivalent of giving your girlfriend a washing machine for Valentine's.

Caleb's eyes light up when he sees the gift with “Uncle Stan” written on the tag. It's wrapped in old Toy Story wrapping paper that Stan has had laying around for years. He's wrapped past birthday presents for his godson in it; he had been big into the Toy Story series when he was four, but every time he fails to recognize it. A year is a long time for a kid.

He rips open the present and the sounds of awe, and jealousy, of the other kids, fill the room. Heidi makes that disapproving noise she always makes when Stan gives his godson a present, like a deep feline growl in her throat. But the only voice Stan really cares about is Caleb's as he cries out exclamations of “Awesome!” and “This is so cool!” Kyle helps him pry the box open and Caleb tries to help but it's really not a two-person job. His father shoulders him out of the way.

The boy takes the opportunity to run up to Stan, throwing his arms around his godfather's waist. It's a rough hug, all kinetic energy and force. His arms squeeze tightly around him, tighter than Stan thought the boy was capable of squeezing. His arms are longer than Stan thought they were as well. They fit all the way around Stan as he presses his cheek against Stan's breastbone.

He feels good. Slender and small and that combination of hard boniness and soft skin Stan fantasizes about at night. He gives in and hugs him back, knowing it'd look weird if he didn't, and why shouldn't he let himself have this? Let himself enjoy an affectionate touch from his godson?

Swaying slightly, eyes closed, Stan lets the hug linger. He touches the space between Caleb's shoulder blades. He feels damp with sweat in that area. He smells like a hot summer day. Like freshly mowed grass, despite the fact they've spent most of the day in front of the television. It makes Stan think of hiking. They haven't gone hiking together in years. He should ask Caleb if he'd like to go hiking next weekend if the weather is nice. But then Caleb is pulling back and taking his present back from his father, who has managed to open it.

“I wish you would've discussed this with us,” Heidi says curtly as Caleb hurries to leaf through the instruction. His friends take turns passing around the headset. “I don't know if VR glasses are even advisable at his age. They could cause eye strain.”

“I'm sure it's perfectly safe,” Kyle insists, standing between his wife and his best friend. Closer to Stan than Heidi. Shorter than both of them. “Besides, that's what a godfather is there for. To spoil a kid so his parents can spend money on something for themselves.”

Stan's pretty sure godparents are just supposed to be there in case something happens to the real parents, but sure. Let's go with that. Works fine for him.

Because he loves seeing that jubilant smile on Caleb's face. And knowing he put it there makes it all the sweeter. He excuses himself to go get another beer from the fridge.

Stan barely reaches the outskirts of South Park when the first drops of rain splatter against the windshield. There is no heads up. No mist or gentle sprinkling from the heavens. Just large, fat droplets of water spreading across the glass. Thunder explodes from behind him.

He knows he shouldn't be driving. He's drunk too much. He knows this because he's become weepy. He's not always a weepy drunk, but he always has the potential to become one. His moods can change as suddenly as the weather has today.

Wiping at his eyes, Stan smiles unsteadily. It had been a beautiful sunny day for a barbecue and he's glad Mother Nature waited for his godson's birthday celebration to be over before releasing down on them. But why would anybody wish to celebrate something like that anyway? Another year older, another year towards pimples then gray hair and wrinkles and then death.

It's not a refreshing rain. The dampness in the air is heavy and Stan feels sweat welling along his hairline. He wipes at his face with the back of his hand, his forehead first, and then his nose. He tastes sweat and tears and oil on his lips. It doesn't taste like the ocean but like unctuous adult secretions.

There's a mix tape playing in the radio. It's been playing on repeat for weeks now, an honest-to-goodness cassette tape with “90's alt” scribbled on it with a purple Sharpie. Mostly grunge but not pure enough to be labeled as such.

Barely catching anything besides a slight thump of the bass, he turns up the volume. _Interstate Love Song_ swells through the speakers, already in the last third of its run. It's a short song and fades out quickly. Stan turns the dial again as the opening beats to _Heart-Shaped Box_ bleeds through the speakers.

This song shows up on most of his mix tapes. Except the ones he makes for road trips with Kyle. He doesn't want Kyle to hear this song, to listen to the lyrics, and interpret what they truly mean. It's ridiculous, really. This was a single, of course Stan has every right to listen to and it enjoy it. Many people enjoy this song.

But what if Kyle looked at him and saw beneath the layers, as he used to do when they were kids? What if he saw how Stan's lips trembled? What if he saw the look of anguish on his face? The song is a warning. A reminder. Don't step out of line. Look, don't touch. Don't fantasize too much. Accept what you cannot have. Boys are dangerous. Don't let yourself take that step. Angel's hair is sharp as a razor and baby's breath is poison.

He rewinds the tape several times, replaying the song all the way home, singing along loudly. His voice goes hoarse. It's still pouring out when he arrives at his apartment building. It feels like a sauna when he steps out of the car. Clumsily, Stan stumbles over his own feet, catching himself against the side of the car. Good thing he can drive better than he walks under the influence.

It's a nice enough building but the neighbors can be nosy. Even in this weather Tommy, his neighbor two units down, leans against a balcony, smoking as Stan passes. He turns his head away, afraid he'll see his tears and not mistake them for rain.

Tommy's a good kid. Barely twenty, living on his own, somehow, he looks older than he is. The result of a difficult life, thrown out on the street at the age of fourteen by his stepfather. His place is a studio, half the size of Stan's own apartment. The owners had gone through and divided some of the old units a few years back as housing prices in the area skyrocketed. Tommy doesn't have a car and sometimes asks Stan for the occasional lift.

He also, undeniably, has a crush on Stan.

“Hey!” Tommy greets, lighting up at the very sight of Stan. As if he'd like nothing more in the world than to spend his time with his creepy pedophile neighbor. “I stopped by awhile ago but guess you've been out? Wanted to see if you felt like chilling?”

“Chilling” for Tommy is a euphemism to him bringing his bong over to Stan's place and spending an evening smoking while eating Cheetos and watching bad television. Not a bad way to spend a night, to be truthful, it makes Stan feel young. Except sometimes Tommy gets touchy, little things like brushes against Stan's knee or throwing an arm over his shoulder. Lead up to something else as he looks for permission that Stan never gives him.

Why does he keep disappointing handsome gay men?

He declines Tommy's offer. Something about a busy day and just hitting the sack.

The apartment feels cool compared to outside and Cougar, his tortoiseshell cat, thuds towards the door to greet him.

“Hey baby,” he coos, bending down to scoop her into his arms. She's already purring and attempts to touch Stan's face with her paws. He turns his head to avoid a paw in his mouth.

He hadn't been a cat person as a kid, that had been more of Cartman's area of expertise. But it would be cruel to keep a dog cooped up in an apartment all day as he works his twelve-hour shifts at the hospital. He rubs his cheek against her, leaving a sheen of sweat on the side of her head.

“You hungry, girl?” Stan asks, walking into the kitchen. Cougar sets her paws on his shoulders and watches where they've just been. She doesn't attempt to jump though. That had been a worrying habit as a kitten. She had nearly given Stan a heart attack the first time she had jumped six feet to the floor when she was barely anything but a fluffy ball of fur and bone. As his first cat, he hadn't realized they could easily take leaps that would break a dog's leg.

Her food dish isn't empty but Stan throws away the old food and refills it with a fresh supply, which she immediately runs for. She doesn't like it when it's been sitting around for too long. Stan supposes he wouldn't like stale food either.

He contemplates grabbing another beer from the fridge, but it's been too long since his last beer. His stomach feels uneasy, as if the beginning of a hangover is already starting to hit him. He knows if he goes to sleep now he'll just wake up in two hours to an upset stomach.

But he feels so tired. The alcohol is making him sleepy and he unsuccessfully suppresses a yawn. He leaves the door to the bedroom open so Cougar can join him and lies on top of the blankets for awhile, listening to the hum of the air conditioning. He's exhausted but he can't sleep. He knows he won't be able to fall asleep.

Except he's suddenly waking up, his stomach rolling. His mouth tastes sour and the clock reads three. The air conditioning is still rumbling. As is his pillow. Cougar. She's on his pillow, purring.

He could get up and go throw up. That would probably help his stomach. But he hates the taste of old alcohol and bile. And he doesn't want to get up. He just wants to sleep. He wants to sleep for hours, days, weeks. He doesn't want to get up in twenty-seven hours and go to work.

He closes his eyes but the world spins. Stan rolls onto his side, away from Cougar, and the world stills. He closes his eyes again and it tilts again, but not as badly. He can smell his own breath against the pillow though. It smells like stale beer.

When he opens his eyes again it's nearly five. His stomach still feels shaky, but he doesn't feel like vomiting. But he is hard. And sticky. His body feels tacky with dried sweat and sand and mussel juice. He tries not to touch anything but his dick as he reaches for himself. He feels dirty and it's easier if he doesn't think about that. He wants to think of cleanliness. Of purity. Of soft hair and skin that has never been marred by teenage oils.

There's no use not trying to think of him. He gave up on that years ago. He closes his eyes and imagines a different scenario from today. He imagines staying late that evening. He imagines the rain coming down early and hard and Heidi telling him “You'll wreck your car in this, stay until it stops.” He imagines it not stopping. He imagines falling asleep on the couch, and in this world he doesn't have a hangover, so when Caleb wakes him up a few hours later he isn't queasy or reluctant. He imagines Caleb leading him to the room and pushing him onto the bed and thanking him for his present. He imagines Caleb telling him he loved his present and saying he wanted to thank his “Uncle Stan” properly. He imagines how Caleb's tongue would feel on the tip of his cock. His fantasy becomes disjointed then. He can't hold up the story with a coherent narrative. Because then he's imagining himself on top of Caleb, inside of Caleb, holding his hand over his mouth. Not because Caleb would be crying or fighting him off, but because Caleb would be moaning and whimpering and telling him how good it feels. And Stan would have to tell him to be quiet because his parents would hear and Caleb would spread his legs wider and push up, wanting it deeper, wanting it harder, just wanting more.

Stan comes at the same time imaginary Caleb comes. And only when the cum is starting to cool on his stomach does Stan regain the ability to feel guilt.

There was one time, years ago, when Stan had tried to seek help for his problem. He had been young then, only eighteen, but his university offered free counseling. Or at least, six free counseling sessions. Not much. And not that it mattered, because Stan never made it through one.

The man, a small, balding, Asian man, had curled his lip at Stan's confessions. And that was the last image Stan ever saw of him because he had averted his eyes and refused to look at him again. Even then the image was blurry through Stan's tears.

“I can't help you with that,” the counselor had told him, “Frankly, I'd like to report you to the authorities, but I can only do so if I think you're a danger to any children, and there are no children in the dorms. The only suggestion I can give you is to turn yourself into the police. Or kill yourself.”

Stan never tried to see another shrink. Counselor, psychiatrist, psychologist, whatever you call it. He joined an online forum instead. One moderated by psychiatrists from New York and New Jersey. It had helped for awhile. He felt less alone, less horrible about himself. He had even started to accept that he was just born one way and couldn't help it.

But then some hackers got into the server and exposed a few of the more prominent members. Stan had been new and quiet enough to be overlooked, but he had deleted his account immediately. And spent a week throwing up in the bathroom at work any time a cop walked by. Realistically, he knew he hadn't done anything illegal. Unless existing was illegal. It felt illegal.

He deals with it alone now. He reads science articles out of curiosity and keeps a paper journal on his thoughts and observations.

'I think I realized what's wrong with me. I just like cute things. Cute puppies, cute cartoons, cute boys. Maybe my type are just drawn to anything cute?'

'I wish I could just be outed already. It would be hard but at least I wouldn't feel like I was lying to everybody around me.'

'It disturbs me that people think you can “become” a pedophile. You don't just decide to be one. It's more like. When I was ten, I had a crush on my best friend Kyle, who was also ten. And then when I was twelve I still liked ten-year-old boys. Then when I was fourteen. And sixteen. And twenty. And thirty. You grow up, but your attractions do not.'

He keeps that journal well hidden, in a fake copy of the Bible, in his dresser, under his socks.

That's probably overkill though. The only person who ever comes into his bedroom is Butters. And that's only on desperate days. Days when Stan craves human contact. Real human contact. Skin to skin. Bodily warmth. Fingers on his hips and lips on his throat.

Butters is a man but in a way he is not. In high school he had been diagnosed with something called Klinefelter Syndrome. Butters had explained the basics of it to Stan. He had two X chromosomes and one Y chromosome. It showed itself differently in various men, but for Butters that meant a stunted puberty, absence of body hair, and a slightly feminine curve to his body. Despite the fact he's taller than Stan there is something appealing about him that he doesn't see in other men.

Stan knows it's wrong to fetishize a disease. But when Butters shows up at his apartment that afternoon, letting himself into Stan's bedroom with little more than a few quiet knocks on the door, Stan reaches for him. He doesn't fight, or even seem surprised. He lets Stan kiss him and lays contently on his stomach while he licks him open.

Afterward he does Stan's laundry and brings him lunch in bed.

“We were supposed to meet at Monty's for brunch,” Butters reminds him. Not scolding, but gentle in the way Butters always is. He turns on the television at the end of Stan's bed, turning it to a rerun of Law and Order: SVU. “You could've texted to say you weren't going to make it.”

“I was sleeping,” Stan apologizes.

“You were sleeping off a hangover, you mean,” the blond tsks. But he makes himself comfortable beside Stan anyway. He's holding a mimosa in his hand. Stan's pretty sure there was neither champagne nor orange juice in his fridge. Butters brought the stuff for mimosa. And grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. On croissants. Can't make it to brunch, bring the brunch to you. “Oh, I don't mind Stan. I just wish I hadn't sat there looking like a loser on my own for an hour. You know I don't mind being here with you. Oh, Cou-Cou, I'm sorry, I'm sitting on your tail.”

Stan watches his old friend adjust himself, scooting away from the cat rather than making the cat do the moving. Cougar gets up anyway, moving to drape herself across Butters' legs. He takes a bite of the croissant.

“I would've texted if I was awake, I swear,” Stan assures him. “I went to bed at like eight, I thought I'd be awake by eleven.” Eleven. Caleb's eleven now. Eleven and one day. Only three-hundred and sixty-four more days until he's twelve. Not enough days. He tries to assure himself twelve isn't bad. And it's not, twelve is fine. Thirteen is okay. Then fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...

“It's okay,” Butters says again. He moves closer to Stan, his arm going up to rest on top of the pillow behind Stan's head. He smells like flowers. Jasmine, maybe, or gardenia. His other hand raises the remote to turn up the volume. It's the one where that one detective, the tall, lanky one, goes undercover as a sex offender. Stan's glad the part with the group meeting has already passed. He couldn't sit here and watch that part with Butters here. At least it isn't the one with the kid who wants to do his step-brother. That episode had put Stan in bed for a week.

“I have a date on Wednesday,” Butters says out of the blue.

“Boy or girl?”

“Girl,” Butters tells him. Stan tries to hide his disgust. Not because he had anything against girls but, well, it's Butters. He can't imagine Butters being intimate with a girl. But he had been before. Stan knows he's just being judgmental.

“What's her name?”

“I don't know,” Butters confesses, and when Stan glances at him his cheeks are pink. “It's this new online thing. You're matched through this questionnaire and you meet without knowing each others name or anything. I'm supposed to wear a red scarf so she can spot me but gee, Stan, it's nearly ninety degrees out next week.”

“Just wear one of those sheer ones,” Stan tells him. “You can take it off afterwards. Who convinced you to do that anyway? Was it Cartman?'

“What? Cartman? No,” Butters looks confused. He always claims he doesn't speak to Cartman any longer but Stan half suspects that's a lie to make him feel better. Butters thinks Stan is jealous of the fact he lost his virginity to Cartman, but really it's more akin to disgust. To know he's been in the same hole as that fatass is disturbing. Besides, why would he only be jealous of Cartman? He's never reacted negatively to any of Butters' other lovers. Maybe Butters has some unresolved feelings towards the fatass. “It was Wendy, actually.”

Wendy. Stan's ex. Butters' ex. Stan hasn't dated her since middle school but Butters lived with her a few years through college. Now they're sleeping with each other instead. Not exclusively. Well, not on Butters' side anyway. Stan hasn't slept with anybody besides Butters' in three years. The last one had been a college kid who looked sixteen; he had worked part-time at the hospital with him but left the following semester when his classes got in the way.

“Wendy's trying to pimp you out now?”

“Aw, come on Stan. Don't say it like that.”

Stan rolls his eyes, but pulls Butters close anyway. The blond soaks up the attention, nudging his head under Stan's chin. But after the episode finishes, Stan excuses himself to shower.

“Do you want me to leave?” Butters asks, worriedly. Taking Stan's words as a subtle hint for him to leave.

“No, I just smell like old beer sweat,” Stan assures him. “Go play the PS4 or something. I'll be out in twenty.”

It's closer to a half-hour. But it doesn't matter. Butters is perfectly content to lounge in Stan's old armchair, wearing only one of Stan's old t-shirts, as he plays some rhythm game with flashing neon colors. His eyes are glued to the screen, eyes slightly watering, as if he can't look away or blink. Which he probably can't or he'd lose.

Stan digs out the carton of orange juice from the fridge and drinks directly from it. Butters hears him and yells at him to use a glass, even though he can't see him around the wall dividing the kitchen from the living room.

“It's my house,” Stan calls to him.

“It's my orange juice,” Butters calls back.

They share the armchair and play some RPG that Stan can't remember the name of because it's Japanese and just looks like a string of letters to him. It's not as nice as playing Mario 3 with Caleb and his friends and Stan wishes he had something besides champagne in the house. But Butters refuses when Stan asks him to go pick him up some beer, and sobriety is the price he needs to pay for not getting dressed that day.

**Chapter 2**

The sun is already up and shining under the visor directly into his eyes when Stan pulls his car into the Broflovski driveway. Another beautiful summer day, the air still muggy from an overnight rain shower. It's already starting to grow warm despite the early hour, the baking rays cutting through the moisture in the air. By all accounts, he should be in bed. Just barely off a twelve-hour shift at the hospital, Stan is dead on his feet. He's also supposed to go back in for another eight hours tonight. But, thankfully, Stan has already called in for the next week. He doesn't hate work, necessarily, his job is rewarding and pays the bills, but when the summer weather moves in, the birds are singing, and the smoky haze of the barbecues fill his complex, he longs for the freedom childhood brought along with the season.

This particular occasion is a mixed bag, however.

Stan is met at the door with a bone-crushing hug. Specifically, a wet, sniffling armful of pudgy Jew greets him as Kyle embraces his best friend as fervently as if he hasn't seen him in twenty years. The moment the door clicks shut behind them, blocking the slanting sun, he breaks down entirely, sobbing with his face pressed into Stan's chest.

“Hey,” Stan soothes, enveloping his best friend in his arms. Kyle responds by sobbing even harder, his fists gripping Stan's t-shirt in tight handfuls. Stan presses one hand to Kyle's upper back, between his shoulder blades, and rubs in large, comforting circles. “I'm here. I'm sorry. Are you okay?”

Kyle nods against him, forehead pressed to Stan's chin, his face smooshed into Stan's t-shirt. He feels small in Stan's arms, small in a way he hasn't in years. Not since he started packing on weight just a few years after tying the note with Heidi. Not that Kyle is exceptionally obese, barely hovering at overweight, but he had been so scrawny when they were kids that the contrast is stark. His shoulders are drawn now, and he's trembling. It's triggering Stan's protective instinct and he sways slowly, subconsciously, with the other man in his arms, as if he were a baby being rocked to sleep. Kyle just leans into him, allowing the coddling, tiny whimpers bubbling out from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Kyle.” Heidi's voice comes from the kitchen. She emerges, holding a small blue and yellow backpack in hand. Noah's backpack, it looks like, a plastic-looking Spongebob Squarepants bag about half the size of a normal backpack. “I can't find the Dramamine-oh, hi Stan.”

Her voice drops when she spots Stan, clearly less than pleased by his appearance. And maybe, perhaps, she would be perfectly fine if she just found out he had died in a car accident on the way here. Kyle reluctantly pulls himself from Stan's arms, leaving a wet spot of tears and snot on Stan's retro Donkey Kong t-shirt, and wipes at his face. Heidi walks over, placing a hand on the small of her husband's back. The backpack swings from her grasp, weightless, empty. Something about the backpack is unsettling in its husk-like state, like some hazardous insect has recently escaped from the giant cocoon.

“Thank you for coming over,” she says smoothly to Stan, startling him in his overtired trance-like state. He looks up from the backpack, into Heidi's frazzled looking eyes. Her hair is frizzy around the edges. There's no real warmth in her voice, but she's required to play the polite wife role to her husband's friend. “I know it was short notice.”

“Of course,” he shrugs, trying to ignore the fuzz around his line of vision and the headache creeping into his temples. He's so tired. He could have denied Kyle's request, said he was too busy, too tired to help them out. If anybody else had asked for him to forgo his sleep to do them a favor he probably would have come up with some excuse. If Kyle had requested him some other favor, even. But this offer had been so tempting. “You know I have no problem watching Caleb for a few days.”

“We'll come straight back after the funeral,” Kyle tells him. His voice sounds clogged. His poor old friend had inherited his mother's nose as he grew and now tends to speak through it, giving his words a nasal if snobbish drawl. With it clogged he sounds odd, muffled almost, sort of like listening to somebody speak underwater. “My Mom will being staying longer to clear up stuff with the property but she'll be flying back.”

Stan isn't sure why they all just don't fly there in the first place. A big family field trip to New Jersey with a car full of weepy Broflovskis sounds like his own personal hell. How are they going to fit them all into Ike's van anyway? Even without Caleb going along there will be six adults and four kids. Okay, yes, Kyle's family has always fit the “cheap Jew” stereotype, despite his objections, but Colorado to New Jersey isn't a half-day trip. Especially with that many kids needing to use the bathroom or submitting to car sickness. Stan just knows Noah will be miserable the entire journey, he hates car rides. Even a trip to Denver leaves him screaming and red-faced.

“Take all the time you need,” Stan assures him, already pitying what Kyle has lying ahead of him over the next week. He feels like the trip itself would be more traumatizing than the death in the family. “I have the vacation time built up.”

It's not a lie in the slightest. Stan has more than the required vacation time accumulated to waste on babysitting, though requesting it off on such short notice had been an ordeal. He had ended up lying in the long run, just claiming “There's been a death in the family.” He didn't specify which family and it's not his fault they didn't ask. He always ends up being pestered to use up the last of his vacation time at the end of every year anyway, this was better than sitting around the apartment in his underwear, in December, drinking spiked eggnog and watching shitty Christmas specials. Who was he supposed to go on vacation with anyway? His cat? Heidi would never agree to allow him and Kyle to go out on another brocation. They haven't been able to go away together since before Caleb was born. The most alone time he's gotten with Kyle in the last decade is an afternoon at the bar, and even then Heidi texts him constantly, demanding he pick up milk on the way home or insisting he not drink too much. As if Kyle has ever drank more than two beers in a row in his entire life.

Kyle seems unwilling to leave Stan's side today. He's always been emotionally needy when upset and this is something Stan has always been good at dealing with, but Heidi tells his best friend he needs to finish packing for the trip so he says he'll be back in a minute, swallowing back another round of tears. She waits until he's gone before getting down to business.

“Caleb's recital is Thursday at five,” she tells Stan, flipping through her phone. It reminds Stan of some old 90s movie executive secretary, going through a checklist on a clipboard as her boss brushes his teeth or straightens his tie. Do people still use clipboards? Probably not. What would be the point with the proliferation of tablets? If Heidi notices the unfocused quality of Stan's blank-eyed stare she doesn't mention it. “His outfit is already put together and hanging in the laundry room. Make sure he remembers to tuck in his shirt and help him with his tie. Kyle always does it for him. He's too old for a clip-on. He knows where the camera is, the battery is already charged. Make sure to get a good video of him, okay?”

“Of course,” Stan promises. Like he would ever pass up the opportunity to capture his godson on video. Especially showing off his creative talents, which, in Stan's opinion, is when he's his most beautiful. “It'll be like you're right there watching.”

“He needs the video for his portfolio,” Heidi informs him, voice clipped. She's speaking down to Stan like he's an idiot. How dare he imply that this video serve any purpose besides the practical. “He has no chance of getting in if he doesn't have enough extracurricular activities.”

Right. “The Portfolio.” Of course Heidi doesn't want a video of her son performing on his violin just for her own enjoyment. It's part of his “fast track” to an ivy league school of her choosing. Stan's just glad that Caleb seems to show a genuine love for the violin and doesn't appear to just be suffering through all the lessons and practice for his mother's sake. Still, the boy is eleven, Stan wishes his parents would let him enjoy the little freedom he has left before it's all tests and term papers, for Christ sake. Stan wonders if it was really Caleb who insisted on skipping his great grandmother's funeral so he can stay home for his recital. It seems likely Heidi played a hand in that battle; she never even met the woman.

She mentions something about texting him a list of other “requirements” and Stan feels his phone buzz in his pocket a second later. Then it buzzes again. And again. Heidi treats parenting like a well-oiled machine. Doubtless, there's a list of his kosher dietary requirements, his violin practice schedule, his bedtime, a list of emergency contacts, and probably his blood type and shoe size now in his phone messages. As if he doesn't already know the majority of this information.

Minutes later the house is in a flurry as the adults in the household try to remember and gather any last-minute items. This isn't something that was planned out to the minute like one of the normal Broflovski vacations. Stan only received the call himself an hour ago, his phone buzzing the moment he turned it on as he left the hospital. The call hadn't even come from Kyle because Kyle had been sobbing in the background. Stan was the only person they had been able to contact on such short notice to watch Caleb. As in Caleb, _his_ godson. As if watching over him isn't the very definition of what a godfather is supposed to do! Frankly, it hurt to hear Heidi sprout out the list of names she had called before him. He recognizes that his best friend's wife was trying to apologize, in her own way, for dragging him over for emergency babysitting, but it sounded more like an insult to him. Here Stan, here is a three-page long list of all the other people we called before you. Even the Mexican migrant workers in front of the Home Depot were all booked up for the week.

Noah is in the kitchen, crying about wanting to stay home, and Heidi keeps yelling across the house for Kyle. Kyle doesn't answer; Stan is unsure if he's ignoring his wife or somewhere he can't hear her. Either way, it's making Stan's headache worse. He leaves the three of them to their packing and silently disappears upstairs.

Caleb's door is closed, his Do Not Enter sign taped to the door, but he calls “Come in!” when Stan knocks on it. He closes the door solidly behind him, making sure it clicks shut. Inside the room it is infinitely quieter than the rest of the over-stressed household. Caleb is listening to some sort of classical music. The dark green curtains are drawn closed, blocking out much of the outside light, enclosing the bedroom in a dim coolness. The glow of the tablet washes over his godson's face, illuminating the splatter of summer freckles across the bridge of his nose. Adorable.

“Hey,” Stan says, speaking so softly he is he unsure if Caleb even hears him over the music. His head pounds still from the hollering downstairs. The cave-like atmosphere of the bedroom is welcoming to his exhausted body.

“Hey, Uncle Stan,” the boy replies, but he sounds moody. Just woke up, probably. Caleb doesn't look up towards him, just stares at the tablet in his hands. It's not an iPad, some ripoff. Samsung, Stan thinks. Kyle's too cheap to buy his kids Apple products, not that any child actually needs a tablet, iPad or not.

Pushing down the guilt in his stomach, Stan takes a moment to admire his godson. Just a smidgen past nine in the morning and he's still in his pajamas, a pair of thin sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. Maybe one of Kyle's old ones, from before he gained the weight. The holes of the arms are so wide and drooping that his arms look like toothpicks in jutting out of the holes. Lying on his stomach atop the blankets, he kicks lazily at the air behind him. His hair looks uncombed. Messy, as if he had been running his fingers through it. Bedhead, more likely, not having bothered to brush his hair since waking. It reminds Stan of Butters' hair after a bout of rough, desperate sex, after he has raked his own fingers through it and grabbed at it as Butters went down on him. It's not a good train of thought. Makes Stan think of burying his own fingers in Caleb's hair, preferably with the boy pinned beneath him, lips moist with Stan's own saliva. Surely the boy has morning breath right now, and if anything that's more of a turn on to Stan's half-asleep body. The boy's face is soft and smooth with sleep, mouth slightly down-turned in a way that shouldn't seem so alluring except Stan is feeling needy for human contact.

He walks to the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress. Caleb scoots over, making room for him, but continues watching the electronic device. Stan turns his own eyes to the screen. It's a YouTube video of somebody playing the violin, not in a concert hall but in what appears to be a living room complete with a large flatscreen television to one side.

“Is that the song you're doing for the recital?”

“No,” Caleb replies, shrugging. “I already know that one.”

“Oh,” Stan reaches, trying to stop this conversation from going awkward. He wants to relate to his godson, even if he knows nothing about classic music or violins. He knows alternative rock and guitars but that helps little in this situation. “Is this going to be your next piece, then?”

“I don't know,” Caleb says. He sounds bored, and tired. Caleb is a natural night owl, even as a pre-schooler he didn't like getting up before eight. Stan wagers Heidi forced him to get up early just to say goodbye to her. Or maybe to say hello to Stan, as if Stan needed any such formalities. Heidi's probably already given him the rundown on obeying all her rules while she's gone. “Probably not. I just like watching videos. Don't you ever watch videos of people playing guitar for fun?”

“Sometimes,” Stan admits. But he doesn't mention he usually only does so when he's trying to learn a new song, it's not something he just does for fun. It gives him anxiety, watching people better than him play the guitar, reminding himself of how bad he is despite how long he has been playing. He can watch videos of new songs because then he can at least excuse himself for sucking, but if it's a song he's been playing for two decades it's just pathetic. “So. I guess we're going to be seeing a lot of each other for the next week.”

“I'm not a little kid,” Caleb complains, his voice taking on some of Kyle's nasal drawl. He doesn't have Kyle's nose though so it's more of an assuming of his father's mannerisms than an actual physical adaption. “I don't need a babysitter. I'm old enough to be on my own.”

“You are,” Stan says lightly. Not exactly agreeing with him but not disagreeing either. He takes the spot Caleb freed up for him, lying down on his stomach next to the boy and throwing his arm around his waist. Their hips press together, side to side, denim and sweatpants. Stan wishes he had worn sweatpants as well, or shorts even, so that he could feel the warm curve of Caleb's thigh more fully against his own. “But you need somebody to pick up food and take you to your recital. Not to mention swimming, and hiking, and trips to the video game store. You're too young to drive there on your own, dude.”

He watches Caleb as he tries not to smile. The boy's lips twitch, disrupting the smooth, marble-like lines of his face. He manages to reign in his body once more, forcing the frown back onto his face, creasing his eyebrows as an extra measure of control.

“I could've just stayed home alone,” he insists. But he does nothing to push Stan away and does not object when Stan rests his temple against the boy's to watch his tablet with him. This is okay. Touching, like this, when he's sober, even as tired as he is. He feels safe when he's not drinking. It's only when he has a couple of beers in himself that he has to consciously keep himself away from his godson.

His life would be so much easier if he could just practice a little more self-control. If he could just keep himself from drinking he could be close to him like this more often. Caleb is warm and soft against him, and he smells like sleep still. A comforting, cozy scent that Stan just wants to curl up into and bask in. He wants nothing more than to fall asleep again, with Caleb in his arms, perhaps making a nest of his blankets as they sleep away the morning hours together.

Maybe once the adults leave he can doze off beside Caleb for a while. For now, he has to at least attempt to put on an air of authority in their presence. Which probably shouldn't include falling asleep in Caleb's bed before they're even gone. Stan imagines Heidi would lose any bit of confidence in his babysitting abilities if he failed at even making it through an hour before taking his eyes off her son. Not that the boy is going anywhere. He's still as Stan rests against him, eyes still closed, resting them as he listens to the soothing music. Caleb is a smart kid and must realize that Stan is tired because he turns off the violin videos and switches to Hulu. They watch the newest episode of Bob's Burgers together until Heidi comes in to fetch Caleb. She seems annoyed to see Stan in his room and makes a face before she can help herself, just a wrinkle of her nose that used to look cute on her as a young girl but now looks too soccer-mom.

“We're heading out now,” she announces. She's already wearing her shoes, her purse hanging over one arm, unzipped, with her wallet haphazardly jutting out of one corner. “Caleb, come downstairs and say goodbye to your father and brother.”

“Fine,” he sighs, tossing the tablet onto the bed. Stan sits up onto his knees, releasing the boy from his hold. Caleb scowls at his mother as he trudges past her, dragging his feet purposely across his pale green carpet as if each leg weighs a thousand pounds.

“Cut it with the attitude,” she calls after him as he disappears into the hallway. She turns back to Stan, looking anything but pleased. “Be glad you never had kids, Stan. He's been nothing but a pain in the ass since he entered tweendom.”

Was that another jab? To imply that Stan was incapable of finding somebody to settle down and breed with? She hadn't said it in an ironic tone. Maybe he's just looking for animosity where there is none. Stan follows Heidi down the stairs, silently judging her expanding backside. You'd think eating kosher would help with weight management, but Kyle has the genes from his mother, and even as a kid Heidi had been heavy.

Kyle is already hugging Caleb goodbye by the time Heidi, and by extension Stan, makes it down the steps. Now crying into his son's hair instead of his best friend's chest, Kyle sniffles and kisses Caleb's forehead over and over.

“Dad,” Caleb protests, clearly trying to push his father away. “It's okay. I don't care that you'll miss the recital. It's not a big deal.”

Moody tween though he may be, he's still a kid. The fact that his father is crying over losing his grandmother seems to be lost on the boy. Maybe if he had actually met the woman he would understand. He's never been especially close to Sheila, she had always preferred Ike's kids over Kyle's for one reason or another.

Kyle usually tries to put on a relatively stoic front with his kids in regards to his own feelings, at the urging of Heidi to give their sons a "strong, masculine role model.” Doubtless an attempt to quash her husband's latent bisexuality. Now Caleb just looks uncomfortable with Kyle hugging him like this considering Kyle's normal detached style of parenting. He's getting tears and mucus in Caleb's curls.

“Don't let him manipulate you,” Heidi instructs, wagging a finger in Stan's face like he's a little kid or a disobedient dog. “You're always too soft with him. No ice cream for dinner and he's not allowed to stay up until three in the morning just because it's summer.”

Kyle, looking over Caleb's shoulder at his phone, informs them all that his brother's family is waiting outside in the van.

“Be good for Stan,” they both tell Caleb, kissing him on the forehead once more. Noah has to be dragged out the door, squirming and crying, whining over why his older brother isn't coming with them. Caleb immediately locks the door after them. The metallic echo of the deadbolt is final.

“I'm going back to sleep,” he announces, looking up at Stan. His pale red eyebrows are drawn in at an angle. It's a challenge. What kind of babysitter is his Uncle Stan going to be? Stan knows his parents wouldn't allow him to go back to bed at nearly ten in the morning.

“Me too,” he replies, stretching his arms above his head, emphasizing his own need for more sleep. “Wake me up when you want your lunch.”

He doesn't actually join Caleb in his bed, despite his urge to do so. It's one thing falling asleep in his bed watching videos. It's a whole other bucket of worms pried open to follow him upstairs for that express purpose. The Broflovskis own a large sectional couch and he crashes on it with just a knitted throw blanket to protect himself from the frigid artificial air. He recognizes the handiwork of Sheila Broflovski in the yarn. His charge returns to his room upstairs, socked feet soundless on the hardwood. The house is cool and silent besides the hum of the air conditioning and Stan has no trouble falling asleep almost as soon as his head hits one of the couch cushions.

When Stan awakens, Caleb is sitting on the ground in front of him, playing a shooter on his PS4. The antique clock hanging on the wall over the television reads approximately noon, give or take since analog clocks lack the precision of today's modern digital ones. It's fancier though, with all the wood and shining brass.

The boy is facing away from his godfather but using the couch as a wall to recline against, his head close enough to Stan that he can nearly smell the shampoo he uses. Or he could if it had a stronger scent. His curls stand out all over the place, bleached a lighter shade of pale red by repeated exposure to the intense summer sun. Stan stares at the freckles on the back of his neck, counting them in a post-sleep daze for a few minutes. He wants to reach out and touch one right near the collar of his shirt. He probably could, if he wanted to, and turn it into a thorough backscratching that would have the boy melting into his touch. But his arms feel heavy and he doesn't have the energy to even lift them that far. Caleb's shoulders move as he pounds on the controller, cursing softly every now and then, his voice still high and free from the signs of puberty. His quiet “fucks” and “shits” are extremely endearing.

At 12:20, Stan forces himself to sit up. He feels more tired now than when he fell asleep. His head swims and his eyes blur. He blinks, trying to clear the fog from them.

“You were supposed to wake me up,” he groans. His back aches from lying at a weird angle on the couch. Something catches in his lower back and he has to be careful as he straightens it. It feels like something is grinding but he knows it's just sore muscles. Most likely.

“You said to wake you up when I wanted lunch,” Caleb says evenly. He's still challenging Stan for some reason. Maybe just rebelliousness. Angry still about his parents treating him like a kid. But Stan has never given him a reason to fight him. He's never wanted to do anything but make Caleb happy since the day he was born, no matter the number of tongue-lashings he's received from Heidi as a result. “I didn't want lunch yet.”

“I said wake me up at lunchtime, not when you were hungry. Lunchtime is noon.”

“If you meant noon you should've set an alarm on your phone,” Caleb replies, speaking over the blasting of guns on the television set.

Stan doesn't argue with him. What's the point, it'd just make Caleb even more obstinate with him. Instead he ruffles Caleb's wild mane and asks, “Well, how about now? Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Finish your game and get dressed. I'd shoot your mom for a sofritas burrito right now.”

The only one of Caleb's friends that comes over throughout the week is Liam. Mostly, this is due to Kenny knowing Stan and therefore not worrying about some weird guy hanging around his kid. Stan offers to drive Caleb over to one of his friends' houses if he wants, but the boy complains about their parents. One's mother apparently has a new boyfriend who is bossy to them all, another has a father who sleeps during the day and complains if they're around. Nobody wants to go to Liam's house, just like nobody had wanted to go to Kenny's when they were all kids. It's not as bad as where Kenny grew up but he and Tammy fight a lot and there's a lot of kids hanging around, whining and breaking stuff. Caleb also complains they never have anything to eat there but generic peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. For some reason the kid loves peanut butter with celery sticks and he loves jam on toast but he doesn't like them together.

The first time Stan goes to pick up Liam for the day Tammy hands him over as if he were a piece of mail delivered to the wrong address. Liam smiles shyly, sweetly, causing something to melt inside Stan's stomach. He really is a cute kid. Stan takes his backpack for him, tossing it into the trunk, and doesn't even have to remind him to buckle up in the backseat.

They aren't exactly like Kyle and himself as kids. Liam is too polite and quiet to be either of them. Caleb is too pushy. There's a power dynamic between the two of them that never existed between Stan and Kyle. Neither of them ever had to be “in charge,” or if they did, they took turns. It's not really a problem though. Liam seems happy to follow whatever orders Caleb gives him, just happy to be away from his herd of siblings and finding himself the center of another boy's attention. He agrees with whatever suggestions Caleb has for new forms of entertainment. It works, they're dissimilar but complimentary, but one oddity in the situation is that Caleb finds himself not just in charge of Liam but Stan as well. Stan wants him to enjoy being with him. He wants him to have fond memories of their week together. He wants to be his “fun Uncle Stan” forever, not some boring old dude the same age as his parents that just ordered him around for a week.

They eat whatever Caleb wants to eat, though at times that leaves Stan little vegetarian options besides fries or rice. They do whatever Caleb wants to do, no matter the cost or distance needed to travel. Stan pays for all three of them to go to the waterpark one day then the next day they go to a baseball game in the morning and Casa Bonita that evening. Stan buys the boys four new video games at GameStop and they stay up until nearly two in the morning, drinking soda and eating an ice cream cake Caleb asked for at the grocery store.

If Heidi hears about any of this stuff she'll kill him. Stan never even opens the lists she texted him, so if ice cream cake is on Caleb's “Do Not Feed Him” list he never knows about it. Ignorance is bliss.

However, the one day where they don't adapt to Caleb's “my way or the highway” attitude is Stan's favorite day of the week. On Wednesday morning, Stan shakes Caleb out of a deep sleep before the sun even peaks on the horizon, just so the two of them can hike to a waterfall.

At first, Caleb isn't sure about the hike. He didn't want to get up so early, his sleep schedule is out of whack, and he's afraid of getting too hot or too tired. Stan promises him they can turn around the moment he says so, without Stan making a single complaint or plea. About halfway to the waterfall Caleb does become tired, but he only asks Stan to carry his backpack for him. Stan takes out Caleb's lunch and water bottle and adds them to his own pack, then rolls up the boy's bag and shoves it on top of them all. His bag is nearly full to bursting and their sandwiches are probably going to be squished but he knows Caleb won't mind. He always squishes his sandwiches flat before eating them anyway.

The sun is just barely rising by the time they arrive at the beginning of the trail. No other cars have arrived yet and Stan has free pick over a good parking spot under a tree where the car will stay cool in the shade. When they step out of the car the long grass near the entrance to the trail is still damp with dew and the birds are chirping their morning trills in the trees. The top of the mountain is hidden beneath the early morning fog, giving the site a cool, serene appearance.

The hike is absolutely beautiful. Stan has only ever hiked this particular trail once before, years ago, and he doesn't remember it being so lush and fertile. Wildflowers surround the trail on all sides and a stream bubbles down a cliff alongside them a majority of the way. It's difficult to see the stream for the first hour, the shadows dark as the sun is still near the horizon, but eventually it rises high enough in the sky to send beams of light down through the trees onto its surface. The water shimmers on the light like Christmas lights.

The first part of the hike is nearly two straight miles up into the mountains. Not extremely steep, but steep enough to get Stan's breathing heavily. Caleb, unburdened by the weight of two packs, complains some but is too sleepy as the sun rises to do more than whine a bit as he climbs. He hasn't gone hiking with Stan in a couple of years now and seems to have forgotten how much easier it is once your muscles warm-up. Stan walks behind him, letting Caleb lead, mostly so he can be there if he slips on one of the rocks still slippery from the night dew. He's wearing shorts and a tank top, the whiteness of his shirt standing out in the dim light. An easy target to keep an eye on.

They don't talk for a good while. But their silence is pleasant. Stan listens to the crunch of dirt beneath their heavily textured boots, the insistent trickle of the stream, and the labored breathing of his godson. He knows it's stupid to worry about Caleb's breathing, if anything Stan is the one with asthma, but he wants to make sure not to push the boy too far.

It's nearly an hour before Caleb is awake enough to talk. He tells Stan about some YouTuber he's been watching lately, then about a new book series he's reading. Something about a Dystopian society where everybody is required to get plastic surgery to look alike. That idea is horrifying to Stan, as he watches Caleb. He might not be the “ideal” by any standards, with his red curls, pale skin, and pink lips, but Stan wouldn't change a single thing about him. The sun is bright through the trees by now. The early light is still cool but blinding at the angle. It shines through Caleb's red mane, making the curls glow as he dips between the trees. He looks like some sort of forest nymph. Fae. Ethereal. As pale as the white wildflowers lining their path. Stan needs to cover him with some sunscreen once they get to the waterfall. He burns so easily and it's so painful for him with his daywalker skin.

Though, a guilty part of him whispers in the back of his mind, if he did let him burn he would get to experience the task of covering him in aloe.

But no, he pushes aside the thought, preferring his godson be free from burns and skin cancer than indulging in his own selfish needs. As soon as they reach the waterfall and the pack is removed from his shoulders, he digs out the sunscreen and hands it to the boy. 

Only after Caleb is protected does he take pictures of him in front of the waterfall. There's dirt on the boy's face from grabbing at limbs and rocks to scramble up along some particularly difficult paths. When he had wiped at the sweat along his forehead and upper lip it had left smears of mud on his skin. Stan doesn't mention it, it looks cute on him, like he's some feral boy raised by wolves. Caleb grins for the pictures, and tilts his head up to make it look like he's drinking from the waterfall in the background. They set the camera on the timer and pose together for a series of pictures, including one where Stan grabs the boy and holds him bridal style as he pretends to throw him into the pool at the bottom.

Caleb suggests going for a swim in the pool.

“There might be poisonous snakes,” Stan says, hesitating. Not just because of the snakes but because they didn't bring any swim trunks. He doesn't really want to risk skinny dipping in the middle of nowhere with this gorgeous morsel of a boy.

Caleb, who has been raised by his mother to be terrified of any sort of reptile, agrees to forgo the swim.

The waterfall isn't the end of the trail though. It's a loop and eventually they end up at the summit of the mountain. This is where Stan removes his backpack once more and digs out their lunches. Sandwiches, because they're light and easy and don't need to be kept particularly cold or warmed up. He's made Caleb's favorite, turkey with mayo, and barely remembers to eat his own cheese and tomato sandwich as he watches the boy devour his food. They're both hungry from the hike but Stan is too distracted by the mayonnaise in the corner of Caleb's mouth to notice his own hunger. He eats like a wild dog, swallowing chunks without really chewing. Stan tells him to slowdown and makes him drink some water between bites.

Uncharacteristic for the boy, he actually notices Stan isn't eating and asks him if something is wrong.

“Just waiting for my stomach to settle,” he lies. Partly, anyway. It is true he's still a bit winded and slightly nauseous from the exercise. He's hungry, but in that odd state where he feels like if he'd eat he might throw up. Usually he can eat through that feeling, knowing he needs the energy to go on but today? God. He doesn't even particularly like mayonnaise but he wants to lean over and lick it off the corner of his godson's mouth. And what if he did? And what if Caleb reacted badly? They have another two-hour hike back down the mountain to the car. What if Caleb ran from Stan? What if he tripped? What if he fell over one of the cliffs and hurt himself?

He gives his racing heart a couple of minutes to slow, waiting until Caleb is nearly finished before taking a bite of his own sandwich. The acid in the tomato has started to melt the cheese, creating a creamy mush of a sandwich that Stan is for some reason partial to. He always craves tomatoes when he's exercising. Potassium deficiency, maybe. Stan takes his multivitamin religiously but there's barely any potassium in those things. His mother is always telling him to go to the doctor to be tested for that stuff but this is South Park. He knows what the doctor in this town will tell him: eat meat.

Already finished, Caleb balls up the packaging of his own lunch and shoves it back into Stan's backpack. Good kid. How many times over the years has Stan told him to “leave nothing but footprints.” He watches as Caleb approaches the edge of the cliff that marks the top of the mountain. The fog has dissipated but it is still cooler up here than at the bottom, and the rocks are still wet and slippery, not just with moisture but with moss.

“Don't get too close,” Stan calls to him. He feels a tightness in his stomach, some dark part of his psyche taking over as he imagines Caleb slipping and going over the edge. Intrusive thoughts.

Rather than yelling back a response Caleb just nods, curls bouncing as he slows down. He only takes a couple more steps then stops, looking out at the mountains and trees.

Again, Stan is awed by how he looks in this setting. His shorts and hiking boots look out of place, artificial in what should be the majesty of mother nature. The boy hasn't bothered to comb his hair again and the curls spill around his head, loose and somewhat frizzy from the humidity. For some reason Heidi hasn't shaved it off this year. Maybe Caleb stood up to her this time. His hair is truly getting long now, it might even reach his shoulders if he straightened it. Not that Stan would want him to ever straighten it, the curls are beautiful on him, softening his face in a way straight hair would contrast with the angles. He imagines the boy sprinting through the forest in only those curls, becoming one with nature like the forest nymph he resembles. Naked as the day he was born.

Caleb leans on one hip, his hand on his side, and tilts his head to the right to watch something off in the distance. The sun glows around him, illuminating him in an almost celestial manner. Stan can't help but pull out the Canon he brought along and snap a few unprompted photos. Caleb turns to look at him after the first couple, catching the sound of the camera, and Stan catches one of him facing him, lips parted.

“Stop taking pictures of me,” he complains. Stan takes another one. Caleb scowls and it reminds Stan so much of a young Kyle his heart nearly breaks. “Stop it!”

“You'll appreciate these pictures when you're my age,” he tells the boy.

“Well, then, let me take pictures of you,” Caleb insists, stomping down the incline to where Stan is sitting on a fallen tree. He juts out his hand, palm open. “Come on, you have enough of me for the day.”

“Okay,” Stan agrees, holding it out. “Do you know how to use it?”

“Of course I do,” Caleb replies, petulantly. He's pouting, his pink lips cupid bows on his delicate face. “It's my dad's camera. Go stand over there. Where I was. I want to see you against the mountains.”

“Okay,” he agrees again. He lets Caleb play photographer with him, posing any way the boy tells him to. Then they switch and Caleb poses some more.

That evening, once Caleb is asleep, Stan looks through the pictures on his laptop as he texts Butters to see how Cougar and his fish are doing. Apparently one of his tetras died. He's sad, but he's had them for a few years now, it's to be expected.

One photograph of him and Caleb together is particularly nice. The boy is standing at just the right angle that a beam of light is hitting his eyes, making them sparkle, and he's standing entwined in Stan's arms. Stan's face, from where he's holding him from behind, is bathed in shadows.

He puts the picture on his camera and texts it to Butters.

'Awww!!! Caleb looks so happy there! But why do you look so sad Stan?'

The major problem for Stan throughout his mini vacation with Caleb is his need for alcohol. He can't go a day without alcohol. He just can't. He has two beers at the baseball game and another one at Casa Bonita. Weak martinis at the water park are better than nothing. Thursday morning, they head out to the pond for a day of swimming, fishing, and kayaking and Stan's fingers are already trembling by eleven.

Luckily, the Tuckers show up about that time. Craig, Tweek, and their daughter Katniss (a name both parents hated but had been a condition by Craig's sister Tricia when she agreed to surrogate for them.) Tweek and Ness joined Caleb and Liam kayaking while Craig tosses Stan a beer.

At one time, they had been enemies. Stupid childhood school rivalries. Adulthood, as well as the married life and parenthood, has mellowed Craig Tucker out considerably. He doesn't throw so much as an evil eye Stan's way, too absorbed in paternal pride as he takes pictures of his daughter from afar. Stan appreciates the gesture as it gives him permission to do the same with Caleb and Liam. Though taking pictures of Ness kayaking, at only seven, seems more expected.

But Caleb looks too cute in his striped swim trunks to not take pictures of. Using the Canon, rather than his camera, makes it seem more legitimate. These pictures are for Heidi and Kyle, not himself.

“So how'd they rope you into taking care of their kid?” Craig asks over a bottle of Hefeweizen. Not the best beer in the world, but refreshing enough for this sort of activity. “Or did Kyle finally get what he wanted and snag his Prince Charming?”

“Kyle's grandmother died,” Stan says, mild annoyance in his voice. Craig has always seen himself as some gay guru, just because he came out of the closet before his balls even dropped. “They're in New Jersey attending the funeral.”

“And the brat is here because...?”

“He has a violin recital tonight,” Stan replies. Then after a beat, “And don't call him a brat.”

One beer turns into two. Not usually enough to give him a buzz but he's dehydrated from the sun and hasn't eaten yet today. Still, he's plenty together enough to barbecue and he gets the hamburgers on before the boys return. Caleb is soaking wet, his shorts hanging low on his hips, bones showing against pale skin. Dazed from the heat and booze, Stan doesn't notice he's staring until he brushes against the grill, burning himself. He pulls back quickly, cursing to himself.

Caleb comes to him, pressing up close, dampening Stan's own bare flesh where their arms touch. His curls tickle Stan's nose as he leans in front of him to inspect the burgers.

“Which one is mine?” he asks.

“Those two,” Stan points at the two on the far right. Caleb likes his well done so he added them first. The middle two are for Liam. And on the left are Stan's veggie patties, smaller and thinner than the burgers. Caleb leans back and presses his head to Stan's arm, rubbing his nose against him. It's running from where he's been swimming, he's using Stan as a giant tissue. Then he lifts his hands and rubs his nose with the back of his hand. It should be disgusting. It's cute as shit.

“You'll add extra cheese to mine, right?”

“Isn't meat and dairy not kosher?” he asks, teasingly. Like that has ever stopped anybody in the Broflovski household from enjoying a cheeseburger.

“Triple cheese,” Caleb insists.

Stan closes the grill to allow the smoke to flavor the burgers. When he turns to look at Caleb he notices a small splash of pink across his cheeks.

“Go put on some sunscreen,” he instructs. “I don't need you cherry red at your recital.”

He does, but he only applies it to his face.

“All over!” Stan calls.

“I already put some on earlier,” Caleb replies. He ignores the command and tosses the sunscreen back onto the table. Then he turns to talk to Liam who is sitting at the picnic table, drinking a Sprite. He's as wet as Caleb but his hair is thinner and already starting to dry, while Caleb's hangs nearly to his shoulders in a soggy, heavy, wet curls.

Stan crosses the distance to the table and picks up the bright orange bottle of sunscreen.

“Stand up,” he instructs, waving his hand.

Caleb rolls his eyes, and waves a hand at Stan in an “I don't want to” gesture.

“Come on, it'll just take a second,” Stan commands. “I've let you do whatever you want this whole week, just let me put some sunscreen on you. I don't want you burnt.”

Sighing heavily, as if he were just asked to mow the high school football field with a pair of scissors, Caleb pulls himself onto his feet. His posture is atrocious, shoulders slouched. Stan squirts some sunscreen into Caleb's hand first, telling him to get his front, then walks behind him to lotion up his back.

His skin is hot, probably already crisping up beneath the sun's rays. But he's also soft and smooth and feels incredible under Stan's hands. The vertebrae of his spine stand out sharp, as well as the spikes of his shoulder blades. The dip between the blades is like a cavern. It's inviting, Stan wants to press his lips into the dip. Instead he forces himself to concentrate on his narrow shoulders. The muscles shift beneath his fingers and Caleb somehow both leans forwards and presses back against Stan's hands. Arching, like a cat beneath him. Stan presses the meat of his palms into the tight muscles of his lower back, giving him an impromptu massage. He mews like a feline to compliment his posture. His waist is so small. It's hard to believe Stan was ever this size. That he was ever this smooth-skinned and hairless. Surely his own arms were never so defined, so soft but thin. Like a kitten is, all fluff and bone.

No wonder Stan loves Cougar so much. Maybe, deep down, he just wants to fuck a cat.

He finishes up as quickly as he can but he's already getting hard. A dip in the pond would help, but he needs to finish with the burgers, so he hands Caleb the sunscreen.

“Put some on Liam.”

The second beer turns into four.

Morning turns into afternoon.

Afternoon turns into evening.

Swimming trunks turn into a suit and tie. It's a very plain suit, black with a sea-green shirt. His tie is a much darker shade of green, almost black in the right lighting. Caleb complains that Stan is choking him as he tightens it around his throat.

“You're father's the lawyer, not me,” Stan complains. “Orderlies don't need to wear ties.”

It's not the best knot in history, but it does the job. And from the fifth row, the camera can't tell the difference.

Stan knows absolutely nothing about the violin, or classic music. He doesn't know the song. He doesn't know how it's supposed to sound.

But when Caleb starts playing, he swears he sees angels.

No. Not even an angel. Surely an angel's harp wouldn't sound as sweet.

Maybe he is a bit biased.

He watches the boy's face as he plays. His mouth is a straight line, his jaw, normally soft as silk, now hard as steel. It's entrancing. Stan at one point doesn't even remember he's supposed to be filming it and has to hurry to right the camera after he films a good twenty seconds of Caleb's shiny black shoes.

But how can anybody be expected to remember such a trivial thing as a camera when such an absolute personification of beauty exists before them?

Caleb's eyes glow with some sort of inner intensity as his hands move in their hypnotic movement. His curls, brushed and tamed with his mother's hair serum, brush his cheeks and hang just enough over his eyes to give him a cherubic aura. The sunburn Stan had worried so about this morning is charming, Norman Rockwellish in the healthy glow it bestows Caleb's features.

And Stan? Well, Stan feels like his heart is about the burst. He feels like everything inside him has melted. He is unsure if he wants to eat Caleb, fuck Caleb, or just watch him play that violin for all eternity.

The people surrounding them must have no idea of what they've been given the honor of experiencing because the claps afterward are half-hearted and cut off after only a few seconds. Stan jumps to his feet, clapping enthusiastically, and Caleb looks at him, biting his lip, blushing.

He's angry at Stan afterward.

“You're not supposed to whistle at somebody at a recital,” he informs him, arms crossed angrily over his chest.

“But I was so proud of you,” Stan replies, choking up. He feels like crying. He wants to hug his godson and kiss him all over his little pink glowing face.

“That's not how recitals go,” Caleb replies, glaring out the window. He's half turned away from his godfather, his shoulders pulled up high. He's already removed his jacket and tie and is just in his shirt. “It's not a sporting event.”

“I'm sorry,” Stan says, voice going soft. He didn't mean to embarrass his godson. He just wanted to give him the applause he deserved. “I wasn't thinking.”

“Maybe if you hadn't been drinking all day,” Caleb says bitterly.

Stan stays quiet, concentrating on the road. He's not going to argue with Caleb. He's _not_ going to argue with Caleb. The best path here is just to go along with what he says and try to make him happy.

“Mom says you almost went to California on a football scholarship,” Caleb says after a long silence. “She says you could have been somebody important, but you loved beer more than your own life.”

Stan shrugs. Sure, there had been discussions of a scholarship, but that was years ago. It's not something he thinks about anymore. What's the point of dwelling on things that never happened?

“Why do you drink, Uncle Stan?” Caleb asks, his voice no longer angry. In fact, it sounds very timid, very tiny. It reminds him of the mewing noises that had escaped his lips earlier when Stan had been massaging the sunscreen into his skin. “Is it because you're unhappy?”

He shrugs again. What's he going to tell the kid? 'I drink to deal with the guilt associated with wanting to fuck you in the backseat of my car?'

“Dad says you started drinking when you were my age?” Caleb edges now. He's looking at Stan, turned towards him. Stan is glad they're almost home as the streetlights glow yellow on his godson's face. He turns onto the Broflovski's street and slows down, scanning the road for any loose dogs or stray cats.

“Younger,” he admits. “I was younger than you.”

“But why?”

“Maybe I'll tell you when you're older,” Stan lies. He could tell him about the depression, that part would be okay to describe to a thirteen-year-old, a fourteen-year-old. But not the rest. He pulls into the driveway. “Go upstairs and change into your pajamas. Your mother will kill me if you mess up your suit.”

“Mom doesn't like you,” Caleb tells him. It's not meant to hurt him, just an observation. “I don't know why. I, I like you.”

“I know you do, dude,” Stan assures him. He reaches outs and pats Caleb's hand, then pulls back quickly, reaching for his own door.

The rest of the evening they spend apart. Caleb is tired. He was up early for the hike yesterday, and today has been a full day at the pond. He tells Stan he just wants to shower and go to sleep. When Stan goes upstairs to use the bathroom at nine his door is already closed and the light is off, nothing shining beneath his door.

He goes back downstairs and finds one of the IPAs that Kyle always has in the fridge for him. The alcohol is already out of his system from earlier in the day and Caleb is asleep, so what's it matter? He drinks two of them while looking through pictures of his godson from the past week, stopping to text Butters periodically. Butters' date went badly, apparently, and he's attempting some sort of half-assed attempt at phone sex with him. Stan indulges him, but he's not really into it.

A nearly eleven, he goes back upstairs to use the bathroom again. Caleb's light is still off, but the door is ajar. He must have gotten up to use the bathroom. There's toothpaste spit into the basin that wasn't there when Stan washed his hands earlier.

Finished with the bathroom, Stan walks slowly to his godson's bedroom door and peaks through. Just for a glimpse of Caleb's sleeping face. Just for a glimpse of innocence embodied.

Caleb isn't asleep.

Stan can't see him. It's dark and the boy is nothing but an exposed head and a body beneath a blanket. But he knows the telltale signs of rustling blankets and heavy breathing to recognize a boy masturbating.

Jesus Christ! He's eleven. Was Stan masturbating at that age?

Yeah. He was. And so was Kyle. Together, sometimes, over dirty magazines with a bottle of his mother's lotion. It had been so hot back then, touching Kyle's dick, letting him touch his own. The experiments of a couple of boys who were maybe a bit too close and a little too open with each other.

It's so easy to forget how you were as a kid. There was nothing sweet nor mild about any of them as children. So why does he allow himself to fetishize such features in boys now?

Maybe because, in reality, he was a pretty good kid. Boys try so hard to be tough but they're soft inside, they need love and comforting and reassurance just as much as any girl does. Shorter hair and darker colored clothes don't make them any more independent than any other child.

Still. He's mildly horrified to know his godson is capable of masturbating. But it doesn't matter. He's already hard and he really has no choice but to hide outside the door, back pressed against the wall, and jerk himself off as hard and fast as he can as he listens to his godson's little gasps. Caleb has a head start and Stan is mildly buzzed. By all accounts, Caleb should finish far before him.

But the sounds he makes are so damn arousing that Stan goes from soft to cumming in his own hand in less than two minutes. He bites his forearm to keep in his own moan. And he stays standing in the hallway, silent, until he hears Caleb sigh with contentment. The sheets rustle again, but this is the sound of a boy turning over. Of a boy burrowing into his sheets as he falls asleep. Stan stands in the hallway, motionless, for a very long time. Afraid to move, afraid of a squeaking floorboard, until he's sure the boy is fast asleep.

**Chapter 3**

It feels quiet, too quiet, and way too lonely, not to have Caleb around.  
  
Realistically, Stan knows this is something he should be long used to. He's lived on his own for years now, ever since his senior year at the university, but the silence seems so much more pervasive than it has in a long while. It's almost suffocating, in its enormity. This claustrophobic feeling is further accentuated by the heat of the kitchen. He misses Kyle's central air. He didn't miss the silence of a home with no other people.  
  
Kyle had joked, somewhat bitterly when taking the keys back from Stan, that he was free from his expectations as a godfather once more. That he could run off and enjoy his bachelordom unhindered with no children to weigh him down. No obstacles in his way to an evening at a bar and maybe a new friend to take home to his bed. The latter words, in particular, had come out particularly sarcastic with a sharp bite to them.  
  
As if Stan would ever consider Caleb an obstacle in his life. If anything he's a shining light, the sun overhead, illuminating his path. Never hindering it, never. He would gladly have stayed with Caleb for another week, or month, or the entire summer break, if Kyle had needed to stay in New Jersey longer than expected. The best week that Stan has lived in many, many years has come to an end.  
  
The longing for the boy is painful. More so than ever, now that he has been able to spend an entire week at his side. His absence leaves an empty void in Stan's stomach, a heaviness in his chest. And, on top of all that, a sense of panic. He knows he will never spend so much time in the boy's company ever again. Not until he's a man, maybe, if they all go camping or something when he's older and can drink with the men. But not as he is now, perfect and soft and smooth limbed.  
  
This time next year he'll probably have hit a growth spurt. Might even start sporting some facial hair, though if he's inherited Kyle's genes that will be unlikely. Kyle didn't start growing facial hair until he was seventeen. The other boys teased him about it, but not Stan. Stan would never tease Kyle over something like that, something so personal.  
  
Besides, he knew how it felt to be teased about facial hair. He was capable of sporting a mustache at the age of thirteen. If he had felt so inclined. Early bloomer to complement Kyle's late-blooming genes. But that had worked in their favor, when fourteen-year-old Stan had been still happy with fourteen-year-old Kyle using his mouth on him. He had looked closer to twelve at that age, pretty and small, the top of his head barely hitting Stan's collarbone.  
  
Then overnight he had shot up a foot and Stan had abruptly lost interest in their “experiments” with each other's bodies.  
  
Cougar seems fatter than when Stan left. Butters, probably, overfeeding her. Or bringing her treats. He always brings her expensive overpriced treats from the veterinarian's office he works in. The blond is extremely attached to Stan's fur baby, perhaps to an unhealthy degree. Maybe because he had been the one to introduce her to Stan in the first place. The litter had been advertised on a flier in his office and it had been Butters who had determined Stan needed a pet after a particularly alcohol-heavy, tear-laced weekend spent together. Stan had resisted at the time, claiming he didn't have time for a pet, despite Butters' insistence that cats are “so much more independent than dogs.”  
  
He had been right, of course. Cougar improved his view on life drastically. It's nice to know, after a particularly trying day, that there's at least one warm, breathing body in the world willing to lay in his lap. That if he were to shoot his own brain out on a difficult evening that at least somebody would notice and care. Even if the feline did eventually end up consuming his body.  
  
The cat is already curled up in his lap, purring, not at all put out by the mugginess of the apartment. There was no dramatic greeting at the door but Stan could tell she was happy to see him, nonetheless. She had purred, pressed her body against his leg, waiting to be picked up, when usually the first thing she wants from Stan is a treat.  
  
The fish don't seem to care either way. That's okay though, fish are more like plants than animals. Something you grow because it keeps you busy and they look nice. He watches them now, marveling over how large his gourami is getting. It had been so small when he bought it at the fish store a few months back. The feelers must be as long as his index finger by now.  
  
A loud, aggressive buzzing sound distracts him from the serenity of his mini zoo. His phone, the ringer turned off, vibrating on the wooden kitchen table. Unpleasantly noisy in its starkness. He grabs at it, ready to ignore whoever is calling him. He doesn't want to talk to Kyle or Butters right now. But it's neither of them, just his mother, and, well, he's a good son. He can't ignore a call from his mother.  
  
“Hey Mom,” he says, speaking softly. Cougar doesn't like loud voices when she's dozing in his lap and he doesn't want her running off. He's missed her gentle weight in his lap. “What's going on?”  
  
“Stan, why aren't you returning your sister's texts?”  
  
Great, there goes a casual mother/son conversation. Of course, she didn't just call him to chat, she hasn't done that since he was in college. Sharon Marsh has never been good at dealing with her son's emotional ups and downs. She's always telling him he needs to “see somebody,” and Stan can't tell her exactly why he can't do that. He can't tell her about the experience with the school therapist or the stories he's read on people like him being turned in when they haven't even thought of offending.  
  
“Mom, I've been busy,” he sighs, shoulders drooping. He feels tired already. Maybe a deficiency, he didn't eat very well the past week. He's not vegan but he buys all his eggs and dairy at the farmer's market to ensure humane treatment. Since leaving work last he's had days where he's lived off little more than fries and cereal. “I haven't even been home in a week. I just barely walked through the door.”  
  
“Too busy to respond to your sister?” she persists. Stan can see the thin line of her frown over the phone. “She just wants your measurements so she can finish ordering the outfits for the groomsmen. Is it that hard to just text back a couple numbers?”  
  
“I don't know my inseam length by heart, mom. Can't she just go off whatever she ordered for her last wedding? I doubt my legs have gotten longer.” Stan watches, dejected, as his beloved cat slips from his lap and pads down the hallway towards the bathroom. She likes to curl up in the sink, for some reason. Maybe because it's cool. Stan turns towards the table, resting his elbow on the smooth, dark wood.  
  
“Stan, please,” Sharon pleads through the earpiece, drawing the second word out. “Your sister is getting married in a month and we just want everything to go as planned. Please don't criticize her, this is going to be her special day.”  
  
Her special day? Her fourth one. If Stan had ever planned on having his parents pitch in with his own wedding that flew out the window by the time Shelly filed for her second divorce. Not that he has any plan to ever get married. Who would marry him, Butters? Maybe if they're both single by the time they're fifty. But Stan isn't in love with Butters, he can never imagine himself being in love with anybody so...old. Besides that, Kyle would kill him if he married somebody he wasn't in love with, given that was Stan's decades-long excuse on why he wasn't good enough for his best friend. And somebody like Butters? Kyle, admittedly, has never been overly fond of the blond. God, imagine if Kyle found out he and Butters were friends with benefits. He'd have his head.  
  
“I'll text her in the morning,” he promises, staring distractedly at the bouquet of flowers on his kitchen table. Daisies. Butters' favorite flowers, a gift left by his housesitter to brighten Stan's day when he returned. They do nothing to reduce the empty feeling of his apartment and are already starting to wilt in the heat. “I'll use a tape at the hospital to check and get them over to her.”  
  
“Where have you been anyway?” she presses, suddenly switching topics. “You've been gone a week? Did you meet a nice boy?”  
  
Meet? No. Stan first “met” Caleb the day he was born. A tiny little pink squalling lump of flesh and red hair. He truly had been an ugly baby, though as his best friend's firstborn he had lied and told Kyle that his son was beautiful. It worked out in the end because now he is. Noah had been the cuter baby at birth, but Stan hadn't been there that day. Noah had been born out of town, a month early, when Heidi was visiting relatives in Chicago. Kyle had been heartbroken at the time to miss the birth of his second child, and Stan had been there to pour vodka down his throat and rub his back afterward. Assuring him that it was okay not to be in the delivery room for the birth of his son. That was the last time Kyle had kissed him. As his wife and child lay in the hospital, waiting to be released a few days late because Noah needed to be “observed.”  
  
“No,” he replies to his mother's question. He picks up a bottle cap that's lying on the table and toys with it, turning it between his fingers. “I was just watching over Caleb while Kyle was out of town for his grandmother's funeral. Nothing that exciting.”  
  
“You took a week off work to watch Kyle's kid?” she asks, clearly annoyed by this fact. While Sharon had thought their relationship was “cute” in their younger days, she had started pulling out words like “dependent” and “needy” in high school when discussing Kyle. It's been a sore spot in their relationship for years, exasperated by the announcement that Stan was to be Caleb's godfather back when Heidi announced her first pregnancy.  
  
“It was an emergency and I had the vacation days,” he replies. Then he adds, lying, “They paid me to watch over him for a few days, it's not a big deal.”  
  
She makes a disapproving noise, a humming of the lips, the same noise she makes when his father drinks too much during the holidays. The sort of noise that says “I am not happy with this but I am not going to say anything else on the subject because you're already aware of this fact.”  
  
“Maybe if you weren't babysitting Kyle's kids you would have a better chance of finding a nice boyfriend? There's still time to RSVP for two to Shelly's wedding. Doctor Caldwell's son is still single and he-”  
  
“Mom, please,” Stan interrupts. She's been trying to set him up with “Doctor Caldwell's son” for two years now. A plastic surgeon in Denver who makes six digits a year and has “gorgeous salt and pepper curls” according to his mother. Stan doesn't know if he's ever shown a special affinity for curly hair but she always seems to want to use it as a selling point. And like any of the rest of that package sounds appealing to Stan. He doesn't want to be taken care of. He's not the most well off financially but he chooses to live frugally so he has a decent savings and enough money to spoil the ones he loves. He would rather spend his money on basketball games for Caleb than be wined and dined at some fancy restaurant in Denver. “There's this guy at work I'm getting close to. He's new so, you know, I'm not sure if he's into men yet, but I really like him.”  
  
Another lie. There is no guy at work. Well, there is a new guy. But he's not attractive, at all. Not even to somebody more “normal” than Stan, already sporting a thinning hairline and an expanding waistline at 27. He was nice enough to cover some of Stan's shifts while he was taking his emergency vacation, however, so maybe Stan does owe him a beer or two.  
  
“There's always a 'new guy' at work,” she points out with a long, drawn-out sigh. He notices the age starting to creep in her voice. Something crone-ish about the tone. “Stan, I just want you to be happy.”  
  
What would make him happy would be to hang up the phone. Which, coincidentally enough, ends up being a possibility, as there comes a knock on the front door right then. Not that he needs a legitimate excuse to hang up the phone on his own mother but he feels guilty doing so without a reason. Not after only five minutes. Not that she really ever wants to talk to him anyway, Shelly and the grandkids are her pride and joy, not Stan and his cat.  
  
“There's somebody at the door,” he says, ignoring her comment. “I gotta go. I'll get Shelly those measurements tomorrow, I promise.”  
  
“Somebody at the door?” Sharon asks suspiciously. “It's nine p.m. Who's at your door this late?”  
  
“Might be the landlord,” he says. It might be. Who knows. Maybe she noticed his mail piling up by the mailboxes during his absence and thought he had skipped out on rent. “I'll talk to you later.”  
  
It's not the landlord. It's a young man with a shaggy blond surfer haircut holding a reusable grocery bag in one hand and a McDonald's bag in the other. Tommy. He's dressed in board shorts and a t-shirt with a smiling taco on the front. Where do people even buy clothes like that? And why? Stan has never felt the urge to wear a taco shirt in his life.  
  
But he's also nearly fifteen years old than Tommy. Who knows what the twenty-somethings are wearing nowadays.  
  
“I knew I saw you go by,” he says, grinning, showing a set of not-quite-perfect teeth. Nice and white, but a bit crooked, with a gap to the side. Stan thinks of Caleb's teeth, how the two in the front are just a bit too big, and give him a chipmunk smile that is absolutely endearing. This is getting ridiculous. He hasn't been this obsessed with Caleb in months. “You up to chill? I just went out for a fry run, I'm willing to share.”  
  
Stan almost turns him away. He's tired. The Broflovskis didn't arrive home until seven and he hasn't slept in his own bed in a week. As comfortable as Kyle's couch is it still isn't a real bed and his whole body aches. While he doesn't have work until ten, plenty of time to sleep, he really planned on calling it an early night and just curling up with Cougar for a long, deep sleep.  
  
On the other hand, he doesn't want to be alone. Not right now. Not when the longing for his godson is so deep in his chest he feels like his heart has been sucked out.  
  
“Come in,” he nods, opening the door wider. A relieved look flashes momentarily across the young man's face, as if he were expecting Stan to turn him away. It almost makes Stan feel bad for so often excusing himself from his presence. It's not that he doesn't enjoy Tommy's company specifically, he just isn't usually in the mood to be around anybody most days.  
  
But he needs somebody right now. Anybody. What he really wants is to be curled up on the couch watching bad horror movies with Caleb, their fingers brushing as they reach in the same giant bowl of buttered popcorn. He wants to be able to glance over, when the boy is distracted, and study his profile behind the blue glow of the screen. Even the way he picks at the popcorn between his teeth with his fingernails is sweet, lacking any self-consciousness in front of his Uncle Stan. Or maybe it's just because he's a kid and kids don't care about stuff like picking their teeth in public.  
  
Tommy isn't Caleb, but he's a living, breathing person.  
  
And he's brought beer. Stan's fridge is empty so the six-pack is welcomed. It's Pacifico, not great but better than say, Coors or Budweiser. The fact he is able to buy alcohol at all considering he's not legally capable of doing so is baffling. Stan has a half-empty bottle of Bloody Mary mix in the fridge which goes well with the Mexican brew. He mixes the drinks in two large pilsner glasses and joins Tommy on the couch. Tommy doesn't really care either way about how the beer tastes, Stan could just let him drink it straight from the bottle, but he tries to be a good host.  
  
“I can't smoke tonight,” Tommy confesses after he takes a long drink from the glass. “Got an interview in a couple days. Need to make sure there's nothing in my system.”  
  
“Don't worry about it,” Stan says. He likes smoking but it's not essential to his enjoyment. Liquor has always been his drug of choice. “What's new?”  
  
“Eh, not much,” the younger man says. He's scratching at his knee, it looks like there's a mosquito bite on it. “Just working. Have an interview for a trainer at a CrossFit place downtown. Pays better than the store. Oh! Forgot the fries!”  
  
“CrossFit?” Stan asks, raising an eyebrow. He accepts one of the large fry containers from Tommy, but, honestly, is so fucking sick of fries after spending a week with an eleven-year-old boy. He'd kill for some brown rice. “You know anything about CrossFit?”  
  
“Dude, I do it like four days a week!” Tommy gushes. He lifts an arm, flexing it to show his bulging bicep. “Have you not noticed? I've gotten super buff lately.”  
  
No, Stan hasn't noticed. He doesn't really pay attention to stuff like that. He gives him a half-hearted compliment anyway. Something generic men tell other men then forget almost instantly.  
  
“Anything else new?”  
  
“Well, um,” Tommy fidgets in his seat, his finger circling the top of his glass almost girlishly. Stan wonders if he even notices he's doing it. “I noticed you were gone for a while.”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Stan nods. He adjusts himself, sitting back against the couch with a leg up on the coffee table. “Had to house sit for a friend while he was out of town.”  
  
He's not sure why he's lying. He could just say he was babysitting, though that doesn't sound right exactly. Caleb isn't a baby, or a little kid. He's a tween. Not old enough to be on his own but he doesn't exactly need constant supervision either. Watching Caleb is more like just having a sleepover with him, two equals enjoying each others company.  
  
“Yeah, well,” Tommy shrugs. He pops a couple fries in his mouth and chews. “I met your friend. The blond one?”  
  
“Oh, Butters?” Stan asks. He's not sure if he's ever mentioned Butters to Tommy. They don't talk too much about their personal lives, their friendship mostly consists of mind-altering substances, video games, and bad movies. “I asked him to feed Cougar and the fish while I was out.”  
  
“Yeah, he mentioned,” Tommy confirms. More fries disappear past his lips. “He, um, he's cute.”  
  
“Hmm, yeah, I suppose he is,” Stan agrees. Butters has always been cute though, acknowledging his cuteness seems like a no-duh situation, like acknowledging the sun rises every day or that two plus two equals four.  
  
“Seems like a nice guy, too,” Tommy says, voice slow, cautious. As if he's leading up to something. “He brought canned food for your cat. And I saw the flowers.”  
  
“Yeah, Butters is a real sweetheart,” Stan agrees once more, taking another drink. It's nearly empty. Maybe he'll add a shot of vodka to the next one. The beer and tomato with cover the taste. He doesn't touch the fries.  
  
“Is he gay?” Tommy ventures. He licks a bit of salt of a finger, the licks the same salt off his lower lip. “He uh, he seems very...flamboyant.”  
  
“Yeah. Well, bi.” Stan explains. Groaning, knees aching in his old age, Stan pulls himself to his feet and heads towards the kitchen to get himself a second drink. These light beers are so easy to chug. He does himself a favor and ups the vodka to two shots. When he tastes the drink the warmth of the cheap vodka leaks through. It makes him feel like he's breathing fumes.  
  
Tommy has gone quiet. When Stan enters the room he's on his phone, scrolling through something, but he sets it down quickly when Stan sits back down beside him. His own drink isn't even half empty yet but he sips from it, nervously. His bare knee touches Stan's through his sweatpants.  
  
“So Butters is, uh, bi, huh? Does he, um, you know, date men? Or is he the casual bi type?”  
  
Oh. Oh! That's why Tommy is nervous? He must have been enamored with Butters! Stan can't say he blames him, Butters is a sweetheart. He doesn't seem like Tommy's type though, a little too soft maybe for him. But if Tommy is interested in learning more about Butters he's not going to stand in their way. Tommy's a nice enough kid, maybe he'd make Butters a nice boyfriend. He could use somebody more laid back in his life, he's always been so anal about things after his own abusive upbringing. Stan's done a good job of keeping the young man arm's length the last couple of years.  
  
“He dates both,” Stan says, happy to share any information that Tommy may want. “He had a blind date with a woman a while back but it fell through. So, you know, he's single. Maybe I should invite him over, we can do a guys night with the three of us, if you're interested?”  
  
Tommy visibly winces. Stan takes another sip. Probably shouldn't have brought himself into this equation, if Tommy wanted this to just be about him and Butters. Stan had stupidly assumed it'd be easier for both of them if he was there to get the introductions going properly but heaven knows he tends to be a party pooper. How many friends have told him that over the years? Even Kyle had broken the news to him before, when he asked why he wasn't invited to Token's after-prom party back in high school. “I'm sorry Stan but, well, you get angry when you're drunk, and Token doesn't want anybody fighting.” He does not get angry when he drinks anymore, weepy, more like, or horny, but still. Maybe best just to give him Butters' number and let them figure it out on their own.  
  
Instead of asking for him number, Tommy changes topics entirely. Asking Stan about his own job, which has had no updates in years. Then he mentions maybe going to the community college in the fall.  
  
“You should, dude,” Stan agrees, holding his drink up as if he were toasting him. “You're still young. What would you go for?”  
  
“I don't know,” Tommy replies. “What did you go for?”  
  
“Communication,” Stan admits. “It was, uh, pretty boring. I switched to nutritional studies later on. It was more interesting but didn't get me anywhere after school.”  
  
“Nutritional studies?” Tommy asks. “Is that even a thing?”  
  
“Yeah, it is,” Stan says. “I wanted to study vegetarian nutrition, okay?”  
  
“Pussy,” Tommy chuckles. But he always goes out of his way to bring Stan fries or cheese sticks on his fast-food runs, nothing with meat. The young man finally finishes his drink but just sets the empty, red-stained glass aside, not in a rush to go grab another. “I'm drained from work. Let's watch something.”  
  
“What do you want to watch?”  
  
“I don't know,” Tommy shrugs. He makes himself comfortable, kicking his shoes off and leaving them under the coffee table. By the time he has a second beer he'll probably have his shirt off, if past experiences are anything to go by. Most nights, that's usually when Stan shoos him out of his apartment. When he starts taking off his clothes and touching Stan's knees or wrists. Tonight though, he doesn't want him to go too early. He wants to drink and laugh at stupid movies and forget about Caleb. Besides, if he is showing an interest in Butters, maybe tonight will be different. Maybe he won't make things weird.  
  
Stan turns on Netflix and starts scrolling through the stupid movies they usually watch. Evolution. Dude Where's My Car. American Pie. But those are all stoner movies and don't sound as entertaining without the addition of pot. He switches to the popular movies section and scrolls through them for a while. Then moves onto the new releases. His drink is nearly gone and the vodka is finally hitting him, warming Stan from the inside out. He thinks his cheeks might be flushed. The acid of the tomatoes and spice of the peppers in the mix is starting to churn in his stomach. He stops on a new release in the Land Before Time series.  
  
“Put on a show,” Tommy instructs. “I don't have the attention span for a movie tonight.”  
  
A show. Okay. What do twenty-year-olds watch these days? Friends? Too old. Riverdale? That doesn't seem like something Tommy would be into. Maybe a bit more tween than twenty-something. He flips through the Netflix series, stopping at something called The OA. Tommy says he doesn't like that one and he keeps going. The little title cards become a blur of color and words as he flips through, eye unfocusing.  
  
“Wait, dude, you've seen Stranger Things, right?”  
  
Stan has heard of it, but he doesn't watch that much new television. He's the type to just rewatch old stuff, episodes of Six Feet Under or Dexter. New shows are just an endless sea of names he sees then almost immediately forgets, never delving deeper into. Not without somebody guiding his hand, separating the gems from the garbage. Like when Butters got him into Bates Motel a couple years back. For some reason Butters likes surprisingly dark entertainment, given his sunny nature.  
  
“No, should I have?” Stan asks. “  
  
“Jesus, yes. Put it on. You need to at least get through the first season. This is like, your time. The eighties. You'll probably feel nostalgic as fuck.”  
  
The eighties? Stan was five when the eighties ended. He spent most of the eighties shitting his pants. How old does Tommy think he is? And if he thinks he's that old then why does the young man always show such an interest in him?  
  
He clicks on the title anyway, grumbling a bit about not being that old. Right away, his interest is gone with the flickering lights and some generic middle-aged man being attacked by a monster. Is this what people have been raving about? A monster movie? How many “monster escapes lab” movies have there been? He finishes the last of his beer and is about to excuse himself for another one as sprinklers rotate on a dark, grassy lawn. It's not like he cares about this show enough to watch every second of it, he's sure he can get the gist of it if he misses a couple minutes.  
  
He unfolds his legs from beneath himself and leans forwards, about to stand.  
  
Until he hears a distinctly young male voice. That sort of voice that some boys develop right before hitting puberty, high-pitched yet raspy. Like an old, rusted school bell. The grass on the television is gone and the focus has changed to what appears to be a basement.  
  
Stan knows he's seen this kid before. The pale one with the freckles and dark hair. On social media memes, mostly, maybe on YouTube recommendations once or twice. But he never got the references before, didn't know what the boy was from. Doesn't he wear glasses? He swears he's seen pictures of him like this, dressed in 80s-style clothing, wearing glasses. He's an interesting looking kid, his facial features exaggerated, his paleness extreme. Not attractive necessarily. But not ugly. Just...interesting. Stan knows he's seen pictures of him older, with curlier looking hair, and he actually looks cuter these days. Longbottoming, he believes the term is. Usually it goes the opposite way for the kids Stan develops infatuations with.  
  
This kid though...Stan doesn't know if he can see himself getting too attracted to him. But the other kid. Jesus! The smaller boy across the table has an extremely horrible bowl cut and is dressed like a stereotypical lesbian in flannel, complete with an undershirt, but he's fucking adorable. Big, expressive eyes, round face, and a little pointed chin. The kind of face you see on toothpaste advertisements for his absolute wholesome cuteness. Stan sits up, resting his elbows on his knees, already absorbed. The cute kid is being yelled at by the other three boys for a reason Stan missed and his hurried expression is adorable. Absolutely fucking adorable.  
  
His protective instinct kicks in and by the time the kid is being chased by...whatever that thing is...Stan's empathy setting is on high. The boy's quivering lips and big eyes beg to be held. God, why would anybody make a kid act like this? It's so cruel. It's tugging on his heartstrings.  
  
Tommy chuckles at his side, kicks at one of Stan's bare feet with his own.  
  
“See? Told you it was a good show, why didn't you watch it before?”  
  
Maybe because Stan had no idea there was an adorable boy in it? He's never seen this kid on the Facebook posts. Just the dark-haired one. Why doesn't anybody show pictures of this adorable like creature with his pixie face?  
  
“I thought it was some show about child abuse,” he lies, waiting and hoping for the kid to appear back on screen.  
  
He doesn't.  
  
Stan waits until a scene with some teenage girls before getting up to get another beer. He adds less Bloody Mary mix and more vodka to this batch, the taste becomes less important as he downs the makeshift cocktails in secession. Tommy joins him in the kitchen, grabbing his second Pacifico and popping the lid off the bottle to drink it straight.  
  
Pretty soon it becomes apparent the cute kid, Stan finally catches his name and it's Will, isn't going to be in this series that much. As a consolation prize, the more the dark-haired kid shows up on the screen, the cuter he looks. Or maybe it's the alcohol. Either way, Stan feels his body reacting to that boy as well, his face starting to go warm, his heart rate increasing. This is why he didn't let himself drink when he was alone with Caleb. Except that one night. After the recital. When he had been depressed and lonely, and... Fuck.  
  
Now he's thinking about that night again. It was only two days ago and he's been trying to not think of. He doesn't want to remember the sound of his godson jerking off. But he does. He remembers the noises as if he were right next to him on the couch instead of Tommy. The way the blankets had rustled. The sharp, rapid breathing. The squeak of the bed frame as he got close. The soft, barely audible sigh at the end. The sound of his own fist pumping his cock as Stan had masturbated in the hallway outside the bedroom.  
  
He's already hard by the time Will comes back onto the screen. It's a flashback, the kid in a play fort somewhere out in the world. It's a cute fort, decorated and comfortable with blankets. Winona Ryder's character interacts with the boy and Will laughs and smiles so naturally he can't help but find himself even more deeply enchanted. Even the imperfect smile, the missing tooth on one side, screams perfection. He recognizes in his mind that he's blurring Caleb and this kid together but all he can think of now is himself in that tiny fort, on the makeshift bed with the boy on top of him, in his lap. Naked and hard and moving.  
  
The whimper escapes from his lips on its own. If he knew it was coming he would have stopped it from coming out, but he had no idea he was capable of even making such a noise.  
  
Unfortunately, despite his inner pleas, Tommy has caught the noise and has already turned his attention back to Stan. And Stan, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, has a very noticeable bulge in his lap.  
  
Tommy must see that as encouragement. He lays his hand in Stan's lap when he leans over to kiss him.  
  
This is wrong. So, so wrong. His lips are rough and there's some stubble on his face. Blond, and short, but noticeable when it scratches Stan's chin. Even his tongue feels too large in Stan's mouth.  
  
But his hand feels great on Stan's cock and it's been nearly two weeks since he last got laid. Tommy isn't Butters, and he definitely isn't Caleb or any other boy, but he's here. And he really is a good kisser. Passionate and deep, very wet. His teeth knock against Stan's in his enthusiasm to apparently devour Stan's mouth. He tastes like cheap beer but so does Stan so he'd be a hypocrite to complain. Still, as a tongue massages his own he can't help but wish he tasted like ice cream cake and root beer.  
  
Tommy reaches into Stan's pants, grabbing him skin to skin now, and strokes him slowly, but very, very tightly. Almost painfully so. He's used to Butters' gentle touch, not something like this. He closes his eyes and imagines Caleb there, touching him like this, too tight because he lacks expertise. But enthusiasm would more than makeup for that, if he had his godson in his arms. They kiss again as Stan reaches for Tommy's hard-on, pulling his shorts down low on his hips. Much too broad, the pelvic bone, and the muscles too hard. The carpet doesn't match the drapes. Much darker than the hair on the young man's head. The hair feels long and coarse, Stan is careful not to pull at the pubes as he grips the length in his hand. But when Tommy leans over to take him in his mouth Stan is able to entwine his fingers in the man's long surfer hair and imagine they're red curls as a tongue laps at his cock head.  
  
“I was starting to think you weren't interested,” the blond confesses minutes later, breathlessly, as they stumble into the bedroom. Stan lands on top, grinding down onto the younger man. His cock is still wet with the man's spit. “I've been trying to get you in the sack for a year. Fuck, you're so big. I can't wait to ride that big cock of yours.”  
  
The language is jarring. Too dirty, too calculated. It should be sweet and hesitant. There should be confessions of fear and reassurance that he'll go slow. Their kisses should be long and soft and Stan should be able to look down into large, frightened eyes as he enters. There should be soft gasps, surprised murmurings of how good it feels.  
  
Being pushed onto his back and ridden like a cowboy isn't what he was hoping for. He winces at how dry the entry is. Tommy found the lube, and the condoms, in the side drawer but he's not being very generous with it. He doesn't ask Stan to open him up either, which he's perfectly fine with not doing. He'd love to open up Caleb, or Will, or any boy really. He licks his lips, imagining the idea as Tommy fingers himself. He tries not to watch him but the noises are nice, wet. If Caleb was here he would open him with his mouth first, then his fingers, taking his time until he was good and wide and soaking before entering him.  
  
Tommy has hair on his chest. And a six-pack for a stomach. Which Stan supposes makes sense if he does CrossFit every week, but it's off-putting. Stan doesn't have a six-pack. Not even a two-pack. And none of his recent boy crushes have had anything even close to resembling one. Boys have cute, soft stomachs, almost womanly with how they jut out just a bit, except with slim, skinny little hips to off throw the balance.  
  
The blond uses Stan's chest for leverage, digging his fingers into his pecs, as he fucks himself on Stan's cock. The sight of the other penis, almost as big as his own, bobbing in the air, is sickening. Stan closes his eyes, trying to will the sight out of hid mind. Tries to imagine something small and smooth and non-offensive.  
  
It isn't working. He can feel the man's rough leg hair on his hips. And he's making horrible, disgusting grunting noises like a rhino being bred. His skin is about as tough at one of the beasts as well.  
  
The other man curses, yelling out stuff like “oh fuck” and “so good” and “I'm so close.” But he doesn't finish. He doesn't finish because Stan can't do this. He can't have sex with a man. No man besides Butters, anyway, who is soft and hairless and has a tiny cock and is as close to having sex with a boy as Stan will ever get without doing something he'd regret.  
  
He feels himself going soft long before Tommy does. Only when he slips out of him and Tommy grabs for him, ready to shove him back inside of himself, does Tommy notice his once-raging hard on has been reduced to a rubbery half erection. And it's still shrinking.  
  
“Did you, did you come?” he asks, panting, confused.  
  
“Yeah,” Stan lies. “Sorry. It's been a while.”  
  
“Oh,” Tommy says. He pushes his hair back off his face and falls onto the bed beside Stan. “That's ok. Can you uh, with your hand? I'm almost there.”  
  
“Sure,” Stan agrees, resisting the bile rising in his throat. He reaches down to remove the condom first, tying up the empty, pathetic little rubber contraption. He tosses it in the trash next to the bedside and Tommy is none-the-wiser that he hadn't filled it with his semen.  
  
He throbs in Stan's hand, so hard it must be painful at this point, and he's right. He is close and it only takes about twenty seconds of pumping before the other man is squirting across Stan's arm. He looks down, seeing the white goo already melting into his arm hair. Tommy groans when he comes, his entire body going stiff. Then he turns boneless, sinking into Stan's mattress, apparently satisfied with the ordeal.  
  
Stan really needs to take a shower.  
  
He excuses himself, hoping that when he goes to do so that Tommy will get dressed and leave, but the younger man doesn't take the hint. He's lounging in Stan's bed still, on his stomach, his muscular, bare ass exposed to the cool air of the air-conditioned room. There's some dark hair down his ass crack and Stan feels revolted, standing there in a towel looking at it. His own dick probably touched that ass hair. Maybe he needs a second shower.  
  
“I have to be at the store tomorrow at nine,” Tommy tells Stan. He turns around to look at him, propped up on his elbows. “But we could go out for breakfast in the morning if you're up for it?”  
  
“I, uh, have training tomorrow,” Stan lies. “So, you know, I need to be there super early.” He'll have to wake up early and duck out, find something to keep himself busy with until his shift starts so Tommy doesn't see his car, but that's okay.  
  
“Oh,” the young man sounds disappointed. “I can get up and cook you something at my place?”  
  
“It's a breakfast training session,” Stan says, not sure if such a thing even exists. “They're catering from this local diner. Great Belgian waffles.”  
  
“Alright,” Tommy concedes. But he's still not getting Stan's hint because he doesn't even attempt to move out of his bed. Stan takes his time drying himself off and putting on a pair of boxers to sleep in, allowing him to get the point and go. If anything, Tommy is treating this like some show. A reverse striptease, maybe.  
  
Finally, Stan just accepts he has a sleeping partner for the night and joins him between the sheets. He's not cruel enough to turn his back on him but he lays to one side, leaving a good foot between their bodies. Tommy fills that gap quickly, cuddling up to Stan with one arm over his stomach. He nuzzles his nose into Stan's neck and his head feels large, his face coarse. Everything about him is heavy and bulky. He's too hot and Stan feels claustrophobic, trapped beneath him.  
  
He pretends to fall asleep quickly, forcing his breath to even out and his body to go slack. Tommy strokes at Stan's pulse point with his thumb for a while, presumably watching him, trying to figure out if Stan really did fall asleep that quickly. He ignores Tommy's quiet inquiry. “Does Butters ever sleepover?” When he doesn't answer, Tommy sighs and lays his head back on Stan's chest, listening to his heartbeat. He falls asleep long before Stan does.  
  
What feels like hours later, when he does finally drift off, he has nightmares.  
  
He dreams that he is taken by a group of carnies to a circus. There's an arena behind the big top tent with bleachers. The bleachers are full of screaming, cheering, laughing people. Men, women, children.  
  
He's shoved into a cage off to one side. He doesn't know how he knows but he knows, when he looks at the other men in this cage, they're all child molesters. Sick perverts who would kill a child just to keep them quiet. Some of them probably have.  
  
The bars feel cold, or as cold as they can in a dream, when Stan pushes into them and screams that he doesn't belong here.  
  
“I'm not one of them!” he begs, sobbing, face wet. “Let me out!”  
  
His pleas are ignored. Two guards come and take one of the other men out of the cage. A scraggly looking old man with only a handful of teeth in his head. He yells, threatening to kill them all, and claims he used to be the president of the United States.  
  
The old man is led to a table in the middle of the area. His wrists and ankles are cuffed. Stan watches, in horror, as four trucks drive in different directions, splitting the man into pieces before the cheering crowd.  
  
“Please,” Stan scream again, shaking the bars. They seem to be loosening, but not enough he can get free. He shakes harder. “I'm not one of them! You're making a mistake!”  
  
“We're not making a mistake,” one of the guards says. He turns around to face Stan and it's Tommy, his usually handsome features looking distorted, satanic. “You couldn't even cum inside me.”  
  
“I, I came,” Stan says, because he knows he came. He tied up the condom and everything.  
  
“You couldn't even love me back,” another voice says. Tommy's face changes, shifts like some shitty CGI alien. And there's Kyle. But not Kyle of today. The Kyle in high school that had begged silently for Stan to want him like he wanted to be wanted. “I would have lived my life for you if you weren't broken.”  
  
“I'm not a child molester,” Stan insists, tears running down his face. He presses his face against the tears, wetting the bars. “I'm not!”  
  
“Then what about me,” a third voice says. A higher, yet somehow much more menacing voice accuses him with absolute venom. “You raped me.”  
  
“What?” Stan looks down at his godson. Caleb. He's wearing the guard uniform still, tacky polyester and a wide-brimmed hat, but he looks so beautifully angelic with his red curls framing his face. Stan reaches through the bars, needing physical contact. “I never touched you. Not like that.”  
  
“Are you sure about that?” Caleb challenges, his lips drawn into a precious, pink-lipped pout. “You don't know what you do when you drink, Uncle Stan. And you still drank when you were alone with me. What do you think you did?”  
  
“I didn't!” Stan insists. He didn't! He, he had masturbated. That was it. He didn't touch Caleb. He would never, never, ever, never ever in the world touch his godson like that. “I didn't do anything! I'm innocent! I'm not one of these men! I'm not! I'm not!”  
  
Stan jolts up in bed, his face wet. Tommy is sleeping peacefully beside him. Stan is breathing in uneven gasps, reminiscent of one of his old asthma attacks. Frightened. The tears continue to flow. He slips into the bathroom, tiles clammy against his bare feet, and sits on the closed toilet seat. He can't cry too loudly, in case Tommy hears him.

**Chapter 4**

They come for him while he's at work. For as long as Stan can remember that is exactly how his nightmares have always envisioned it. Not resting at home, comfortable in his solitude, but somewhere he would be exposed to the public at large. Normally that means at work, but sometimes he would daydream about it happening at Starbucks or when he was visiting his parents at their house. Somewhere that he was vulnerable, exposed.  
  
There are two of them and they're accompanied by the floor's security guard. All three of them male. They two of them are not dressed in cop uniforms, clad instead in decently expensive-looking suits, but Stan knows them when he sees them coming. The way they walk with a purpose, evenly with long steps, not hurried enough to say they're rushed but in no way meandering. Their eyes are on him specifically at the end of the hallway as they approach. His stomach rolls as he realizes that they are coming for him and bile burns the back of his throat.  
  
The older man shows him his badge and introduces himself as Detective Warren. The younger detective...the younger detective is Clyde Donovan. He flashes his badge as well. Protocol that Stan does not need. Clyde is a man Stan has known for years. Since they were just kids. Stan had signed his yearbook the day they graduated high school and encouraged him on future success at the police academy. Now he's looking at Stan with a face that is all but the embodiment of disgust. He doesn't speak to Stan at all, just stares at him, reading his face. As if he could tell what sort of liar Stan is just by looking at him. Somehow, Stan doubts he's that good of a detective. If he was he could have called Stan for what is he years ago.  
  
Warren tells him, pointedly, that he is not under arrest, yet, but they do have a warrant for his phone and it would be better if he just came along for questioning. He hands the piece of paper to Stan to inspect but he doesn't do more than glance at it. He knows why they're here. He knows what they're looking for.  
  
“If we find anything on your phone we will have to arrest you,” the man tells him softly. Not in a comforting way, but in a way that makes it clear that he is trying to allow Stan some measure of privacy in this matter. As if such a thing is possible in a town like South Park.  
  
Stan goes along quietly. He tries to convince the older detective that he needs to speak to his manager for a moment to let her know he has to leave early, but Warren assures him management is already aware. That just makes matters worse. Are they allowed to tell management why they're here to see Stan? Maybe they'll just think he's a witness for some other person's crime?  
  
It's almost a relief, to have it all out there. To not have to hide it from these men. These are the first two men who have ever known about him in real life, besides that counselor who told him to commit suicide anyway. Clyde hasn't spoken a single word to him yet and the other detective isn't exactly being kind to him, but somehow, this feels purifying. He relishes the opportunity to lay his soul bare. He's willing to take whatever they dish out at him, if he can just stop fucking hiding.  
  
They have warrants for his apartment as well as the phone and they lay out all the evidence before him in the interrogation room. His laptop, his diary, tween magazines that no respecting thirty-something-year-old man should ever have a reason to buy. The magazines are covered with the fresh, glowing faces of young celebrities. They read passages aloud to him from the diary, turning the pages slowly and carefully as if it were an original Gutenberg Bible.  
  
“'Sometimes I wonder how normal people describe those they are attracted to. Do words like precious and adorable usually come to the mind of them when describing somebody sexually attractive? Would anybody describe Chris Pratt as adorable? Is Benedict Cumberbatch precious? I wouldn't use those words to describe them but I find them repulsive. How anybody could be attracted to anything except the perfection of a young boy astounds me.'”  
  
Stan listens to them read, head down, shoulders drawn up. He's shivering from nerves and at one point they have to bring him a trashcan to throw up in. He ate lunch less than an hour before they came and his meal comes up barely digested. The smell of mayonnaise from the macaroni salad is nauseating. He thinks about when he was eating that salad, innocently watching YouTube videos on the phone in the hospital break room. His third day back to work, he was just starting to get back into the groove of things, the longing for Caleb finally starting to fade as he watched interviews with Noah Schnapp to feed his boy cravings. It was easier to deal with his adoration when there was something else to focus on.  
  
He answers their questions when asked. They ask him for the passwords to both his laptop and his phone. “If you don't give them to us it'll take longer for our tech people to get to what we want but we will break into them eventually.” What's the point? Let them snoop around all they want. Stan wants them to know everything. He wants them to sift through every dirty secret of his mind. He wishes he could make a video of his mind. He sees it as a blur, something you can rewind and watch over and over again like an old VHS tape. A piece of obsolete technology that would damage its media just a little bit more every time.  
  
He sees himself as a depressed ten-year-old, wishing for Kyle to hold him. He sees himself and Kyle touching each other as thirteen-year-olds. He sees himself at fifteen, standing in the Broflovski hallway, feeling uneasy as his body reacts in strange ways to ten-year-old Ike standing there, glistening wet, towel around his hips. He sees himself at seventeen-year-olds, crying alone in his room as he jots it down in his first diary. The first time he had ever acknowledged those four words. 'I am a pedophile.' He sees himself at eighteen-year-olds, panicking as he searches for articles online. As if just typing the words will be enough for the FBI to show up and drag him away. Nineteen – walking home, weeping, from the failing counseling session. Twenty-two – joining his first support group online. Caleb's birth. His first failed suicide attempt and the week spent in the hospital afterward for 'accidental overdose.' Caleb hugging him. Caleb telling him in his little baby voice that he loved him. His second failed suicide attempt. Butters there, promising not to tell anybody, taking him to the doctor for the whiplash and bruises around his throat. The second online support group. The first time he jerked off to one of Caleb's hugs. Caleb's ninth birthday, his tenth birthday, his eleventh. Caleb jerking off as Stan watched outside the poor boy's bedroom.  
  
Why haven't they been able to just record images from the brain yet? It's 2018!  
  
All they can do instead is form an incomplete picture with a diary and a couple pieces of technology. They take away both his phone and laptop and leave him alone in the room for a long time. He's still shivering and his stomach aches. The lights are too bright. Perhaps he's watched too many cop dramas in his life but he had expected dim lighting and brick walls. Not these glaring fluorescent lights and white paint. No, not white. Eggshell, maybe? His head is aching. The forceful action of vomiting just makes it worse and he throws up twice more before somebody finally comes for him. He sits at the table, leg bouncing and fingers tapping on the table. Anxious. He reaches automatically for his phone, out of boredom, and feels stupid when his pocket is empty.  
  
Instead, he removes his wallet from his back pocket and pulls out a piece of paper from the cash pocket. It's a photograph. Not a large one, just a simple four by six, but it's the only picture Stan has of him right now. He stares at the image of Caleb, remembering how glad he had been to open his mailbox that day last December and find his traditional Christmas card from Kyle. They always include a sheet of Caleb and Noah's most recent school pictures with the card and this year Caleb had chosen a green background they made his eyes seem to glow like emeralds. There's a larger version of this same picture over his television, opposite of his brother's.  
  
It would be nice to have Caleb here right now. He would be warm and solid and comforting like an oversize teddy bear in Stan's arms. Stan sighs, touching Caleb's image with the pad of his thumb. Somehow, just looking at him calms his nerves. It always does. The tension in his belly relaxes a fraction. A tiny smile curves the corner of his lips. For just a split second, before the nerves in his stomach bring another violent cramp.  
  
He doesn't know how long they leave him. He stopped wearing a watch years ago, it always got wet from frequent handwashing at work and he usually has his phone on him. It feels like at least an hour but how can he tell? Of course every moment of silence feels drags on a day like today.  
  
But they haven't arrested him yet. He could, theoretically, ask to leave. He doesn't have to sit here, cold and alone. If they're watching him right now, and they probably are at least intermittently, he could just stand up and wave at the camera and mouth that he wants to go, pointing towards the door. They said so himself, he is not under arrest. There are no cuffs on his wrists.  
  
He could also ask for an attorney. He knows that is also in his right. He knows if Kyle were here, and if Kyle was still capable of caring about him, that he would tell Stan to get a lawyer. He would also tell him to shut up and not give them any information.  
  
He neither asks to leave nor demands a lawyer. Stan knows, deep down, he deserves to be punished. He wants this. Maybe once they find everything on his phone they will arrest him and he'll be thrown in some holding cell overnight with a bunch of hardened criminals. Maybe they'll tell them what he is and they'll take turns beating and raping him. Painful, tearing rape that leaves blood flowing down his thighs and damage inside. Maybe, if he's fortunate, they'll kill him. If they don't finish the job, and he gets sent off to prison instead, his chances will be even higher of being killed.  
  
When they finally come for him he's lying with his head on his arms, still holding the picture of Caleb in his hand, lost in thought as he stares at his godson's image.  
  
“So, uh, you have a lot of stuff on there,” Detective Warren says, rubbing at the back of his neck. He sits down across from Stan.  
  
“You're sick,” Clyde spits out, angrily. He does not sit down at the table. He stands at Warren's side, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Does Kyle know how many pictures you have of his son?”  
  
“Calm down,” Warren directs, much more harshly than he has even spoken to Stan at this point. Stan wonders if Clyde is new here. Is he just learning the ropes or is Stan really the worst he's had to deal with in this town? “I told you-”  
  
“I want to stay,” Clyde interrupts the older detective. He frowns but goes quiet once more. He sits down, uneasily, at Warren's side, the opposite side from Stan.  
  
“Alright,” Warren sighs, turning back to Stan. He rests his folded arms on the table in front of him. “It's going to take a while for our people to go through everything on there. You, uh, you save a lot of pictures. But my people ran some preliminary tests and nothing from any well-known pornography sources came back and nothing was auto-detected as inappropriate. Well, nothing correct anyway, these stupid machines aren't worth half the trouble sometimes. We'll have to sort through it by hand, see if we can find anything new. Maybe pictures you took yourself? Of that Broflovski kid?”  
  
“Aren't the pictures enough?” Stan asks, confused. There are so many pictures on his phone. Caleb, obviously. But also Liam and some other boys around town when he was visiting their parents or at one of their parties. The largest selection of pictures is of celebrity boys, however. Not just Noah Schnapp but that boy from that Room movie, kids from YouTube, young pictures of the Sprouse twins. Even some old ones of Macaulay Culkin from back in the day. “I think it's obvious what I am.”  
  
“We can't arrest anybody for being something,” Warren shrugs, “You have to do something. And so far we haven't found anything you've done that is illegal. Do you want to tell us if you did? If you have some hidden folder on your computer full of illegal pornography it would make our jobs a whole lot easier.”  
  
“You mean like, actual nudity?” Stan asks, frowning. Of course he doesn't have any pictures like that. There's some shirtless ones, sure, but shirtless kids out in public aren't in danger. He would never go out of his way to support the exploitation of a boy. He loves boys. Imagine if some pervert had taken advantage of Caleb like that, in some dark basement beneath their house? Stan would punch his fucking face in himself.  
  
“Yeah, that's generally what pornography entails,” the older man is starting to sound annoyed. “Come on Mr. Marsh, you're a young, virile man. How do you let off some steam?”  
  
“That's it,” Stan replies. “That's, that's what I use. Those pictures. Or videos on YouTube. I, do you want me to show you videos?”  
  
“Do they include that kid from that Netflix show in a wig lip-syncing in leather pants?”

“Um, that's one of them,” Stan says, feeling stupid by that description alone. It hadn't sounded so weird before.  
  
“Yeah, no, we found that stuff on your YouTube history. That isn't porn.”  
  
“Intent is what makes porn porn,” Stan insists, knowing he's right because he's read up on this stuff. Anything can be porn if used by the right person and the court has upheld this decision in courts.  
  
“This isn't a bunch of pictures from a nudist colony being used inappropriately,” Warren shakes his head. “These are respectable television shows. If we claim this stuff is pornography then we'll have to start claiming everything on the Disney Channel is pornography.”  
  
Well, it can be. It has been for Stan. He doesn't think mentioning that would be helpful, however.  
  
They ask him about kids he's been around in real life instead. His nephew, Caleb, the ones at the hospital. Clyde, still sitting there silently, glares at Stan as he describes his relationship with his godson in particular. He tells them how special the boy is to him and what makes him so special. How smart the boy is, how sweet, how funny.  
  
“But you're never touched him?” the detective asks.  
  
“I'd never do something like that,” Stan says, laying his palms flat on the table in front of him. “I love him.”  
  
He asks them if Caleb will have to be brought in for questioning. The thought kills him. Caleb is so innocent, he shouldn't be dragged into this. He doesn't need to go through some medical check-up like some hooker raped in a back alley. He's a boy and it's summer. Stan just wants him to be left alone to enjoy his summer with his friends. He doesn't want him near swabs and needles and invasive cameras. He doesn't want him stuck inside a stark white room in a hospital gown. Not when he should be in swim trunks at the lake.  
  
They tell him there isn't any evidence that calls for bringing the Broflovskis into the investigation. Stan sighs in relief. Small miracles. Then he worries what they will think of that sign. Will they think he is expressing relief over not being caught for something? If so they never go any further, which, frankly, is upsetting to Stan. He knows he didn't do anything to Caleb but what if he was somebody else? He hates to think that they would just overlook his godson's safety over something as bureaucratic as “insufficient evidence.”  
  
They question him for a long, long time. He spills his guts. He tells them stuff he has never told anyone. Sometimes, Clyde gives in and snaps at him, and sometimes he turns and walks out the door, needing a breather, but always returning. He tells them about how Caleb's hair looks in the early morning light and how he smells fresh out of bed on a hot day. He tells them his analogy about boys being like kittens, so cute you just wanna stick their paws in your mouth, but they don't get it. Clyde asks if he's a furry and Warren just stares at both of them confused.  
  
In the end, they have to let him go. It's nearly ten at night by the time this decision is made, he's been in the station for nearly six hours and his back aches from sitting up so long in the cold metal chair. He was never even arrested. Never cuffed. Never put in some holding cell. They even let him use the bathroom on his own. He's glad to take a piss in private, and takes another private moment to take out his photograph of Caleb and look at it. He's not trying to turn himself on, but it's soothing, in its own way. The sight of his grandson melts his heart and calms him like some fast-working sedative.  
  
He protests when they tell him he's free to go, horrified by the prospect of just walking out of his building a free man. He doesn't deserve freedom. He doesn't want to be sent out to the wolves. He wants to be protected, or more precisely, to have society protected from himself. He wants to live openly, even if that means being bashed to death in just a couple months.  
  
“But I'm a pedophile,” he protests as they lead him out of the room. He tries to turn around, to walk away from the front door where they are leading him, but he is ushered forward with a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Are you going to go diddle some kid?” Warren asks, so put out with him at this point that his voice is gruff and totally devoid of any emotion. His fingers dig into Stan's skin.  
  
“No, of course not,” Stan replies. He's sure he's made that absolutely clear at this point that he would never hurt a child. They hand him his cellphone and his laptop in a plastic bag. He takes the bag and lets it hang limply at his side, his mouth open in confusion.  
  
“As much as I'd love to throw your ass in jail,” Clyde says quietly through gritted teeth, all anger and spite, “You have done nothing that qualifies as a crime in the state of Colorado. Despite my own opinion on the matter.”  
  
“What about therapy?” Stan asks, turning to Clyde instead. Warren is too cold, too detached. But Clyde is his old schoolmate! He grabs onto Clyde's wrist, pleading with him. “A shrink? Group therapy? Chemical castration?”  
  
“Those are for sex offenders,” Clyde informs him, shaking him off. He winces as if burned by Stan's touch. Maybe he thinks he can catch the pedo germs from him. “You're welcome to find your own psychiatrist whenever you like.”  
  
Right, like it's that easy to find anybody who treats pedophiles in the outside world. Even if he could find one willing to try, Stan knows from the studies how few know how to do so. Not many of them go to therapists willingly, for obvious reasons.  
  
“But I'm a sex offender,” he points out the obvious. He's pretty sure being a pedophile is the very definition of one.  
  
“You're a thought criminal,” Warren tells him, giving him another push towards the door. It's black outside the glass doors, the lights directly outdoors inviting an array of various flying insects. A moth beats against the door futilely, trying to break inside through hard glass thicker than he is. “Get out of here. And try to stay away from elementary schools.”  
  
He takes an Uber home because he doesn't have his car and he's far too ashamed to ask for a ride back from the police station. He could, probably, call Butters. Butters wouldn't shame him, probably wouldn't even ask him why he was there in the first place. Butters is nice like that, too nice, probably. While waiting for the ride Stan sits on the stairs outside, breathing in the fragrant summer air, listening to the crickets hum. The moon isn't full but it's there and the stars are.  
  
Stan realizes he is happy to be free. He is happy to experience a calm summer night.  
  
There's an eviction notice on his door. Not the usual thirty days, the zero on the notice has been blackened out to expose a three-day limit instead. Tommy's smoking on the balcony again and startles when he sees Stan approaching. His spine looks stiff beneath his stupid taco t-shirt. Does he wear anything else besides that garbage? Does he own a dozen of them?  
  
“You're out already?” Tommy asks, voice tight as he turns to look at Stan. The smoke of his cigarette burns Stan's eyes and nose. The smell is repulsive and dirty. Who even smokes real cigarettes these days? Especially somebody as young as Tommy.  
  
“Yeah,” Stan says quietly. He's surprised that Tommy knew where he was, but if they had been here with a warrant to search his apartment then doubtless people were interested in what was happening. He tears the eviction notice from the door and pretends to scan it. His head is too full of other worries to be able to discern the legal mumbo jumbo. “They uh, they had nothing to hold me on.”

“Being a kiddy fucker doesn't get you jail time these days?” Tommy asks, as if he were fifty instead of some bratty twenty-year-old. He breathes smoke out his nostrils. It's mildly revolting and Stan has to resist the urge to wrinkle his own nose in disgust. “Jesus Christ. I was kept twenty-four hours for public intoxication last year and you get to come home the same day. Jesus Christ”  
  
“I'm, I'm not a-”  
  
“I read your fucking diary,” Tommy spits, throwing his cigarette at Stan's feet. He jumps out of the way as if he were really worried by being burnt through something as small as a cigarette ember. The sparks bounce on the stone floor. “Took pictures of it too, when you were off doing who knows what in the bathroom. Probably jerking off to a Baby's 'R' Us ad.”  
  
“It was you,” Stan says, suddenly struck with understanding. They hadn't told him how they knew, he had assumed it had been something stupid. Maybe tracking his computer from one of those old support groups, or counting how many times he watched a kid playing a guitar on YouTube. He hadn't even thought to ask how they had known about him, how he had made it onto their radar. It hadn't even occurred to him to ask. It just had seemed inevitable, in the long run, for him to end up in custody. Destiny.  
  
“Yeah, it was me,” Tommy says. He eyes Stan up and down then turns away from him with a snort, leaning his arms on the balcony railing. He's wearing jean shorts like some 80s heartthrob. “I had such a giant fucking crush on you. That's why it took me a few days to get the nerve to do it. But I can't let some sick fuck like you just walk around. It's not just because of the shit you wrote about me either, okay? You're dangerous.”  
  
What Stan had written about Tommy? He must have scanned the diary extensively to find that, Stan hasn't written that much about his neighbor in there. Only a few musings about how he would have found him attractive if he were just a few years younger, and how sorry he felt for the young man that he didn't want any romantic involvement with him. He didn't think any of it was particularly harsh but to Tommy, who had just been fucked by Stan hours ago at that point, it must have been a crushing rejection. Stan wonders if he's figured out that Stan never actually came that night.  
  
“I'm not dangerous,” Stan tries to argue.  
  
“You're a fucking pedophile,” Tommy calls over his shoulder, “Of course you're dangerous.”  
  
Stan walks over to him, to his side, but not too close to him. Not close enough that they could reach out and touch each other. But close enough that he can see Tommy's face which is drawn with hatred, lip curled in distaste.  
  
“But I've never even-”  
  
“Right, you're a non-offender,” Tommy sneers, emphasizing the last word. He looks at Stan for a moment then turns his head away again once more. “All that means is you haven't been caught yet.”  
  
Stan bites at his lip. He knows this is a losing battle. Of course he knows that, but he doesn't want Tommy to hate him. He likes Tommy, as a friend at the very least. They spent so many hours just hanging out together, can't he see nothing about him has changed?  
  
Except of course it has. Because Stan was lying to him this entire time. Any time he just pretended to be a normal, average guy he was lying to all those around him. Friends by deceit. Tommy doesn't owe him anything because he never kept up his end of the bargain. Friends don't keep shit this big from each other, right?  
  
He doesn't want to lose Tommy's friendship, he likes Tommy, but he knows their friendship is already over.  
  
Turning his back on the man, Stan turns and unlocks the door as his eyes well up, glad that the key still works for the time being. Tommy doesn't call out any last remark as Stan expects him to do, just goes silent. Stan's happy for the silence. He wipes furiously at his eyes, refusing to cry. Refusing to give in to the emotions that are threatening to consume him.  
  
Cougar is lying on the mess that was once Stan's couch. All the cushions have been pulled out and unzipped, the insides spilling forth. Every drawer and cabinet in his kitchen is open, his counters covered in junk. Even the bathroom has been gutted, pill bottles and cleaning supplies filling the tub.  
  
Wasn't the warrant only for books and electronics? What did they expect to find in his bathroom cabinet? A tiny camera for any boys taking a shit in his bathroom? This is ridiculous.  
  
Not that it matters anyway. Stan needs to pack up everything he owns and be out of this apartment in three days. It's...doable. He's not much of a pack rack, for the most part, but his car isn't large enough to fit his sofa or bed or dresser. He'll have to rent a U-Haul. But to haul implies you're taking something somewhere else. It's not a storage facility. And, well, where can Stan take his stuff? He could go home, to his parent's house, but how would he explain what happened? Same goes for Kyle's house. Not that they have a spare room for good ol' Uncle Stan even if he had a decent explanation.  
  
It's late though and today has been a long, tiring day. He digs a beer out of the fridge and retires to the coolness of his bedroom with the can in one hand and a cat in the other.  
  
“Don't worry Cougar,” he tells his beloved pet as she purrs against his shoulder. “No matter what happens I'll make sure you're taken care of.”  
  
Sleep still doesn't come easy that night. He tries to not think about what is going to happen to him but when you're nearly homeless it is hard to drift off. He worries, his stomach in knots, and resists getting up for a second dose.  
  
He does eventually fall asleep, somehow. When he awakes in the morning the sun is shining through the curtains but it is dim. Very early, barely past dawn. He's exhausted and his eyes feel glued shut. He wants to turn over, snuggle back into his blankets, and fall asleep once more to Cougar's purring.  
  
But the thudding he first attributes to his head, a normal hangover symptom, is not an internal thudding. He only had one beer last night, not nearly enough for such a reaction. No, it's the front door. Somebody not just knocking but positively pounding.  
  
He opens it in just his sweatpants, considering the questionability of this action a second too late. What if one of the neighbors see him like this, shirtless, and accuse him of flashing some kid? God, what if it is one of his neighbors, here to beat his face in now that the word is out?  
  
That...that would be preferable.  
  
It's not a neighbor. It's Kyle Broflovski. His best friend of, well, his entire fucking life. Since before they could talk. Since before they could walk. They shit their pants together as toddlers and had always assumed they would return to that activity together in old age.  
  
And now he's standing in front of Stan with sleep-rumpled hair, wearing a pair of very similar-looking sweatpants to Stan's own but with an oversize sweatshirt that Stan is pretty sure belongs to his wife since it's pink and covered in tiny rosettes. He looks like he rolled out of bed and grabbed whatever was closest to wear and ran out the door.  
  
That's highly probable.  
  
His fists are clenched so tightly at his sides they're white. His jaw may be clenched ever tighter, somehow, and it looks painful, how much pressure he is applying to his teeth. Stan finds himself worrying about him, wanting to touch Kyle's wrist and tell him to relax before he hurts himself.  
  
He's always taken care of Kyle. Maybe not the way Kyle has wanted him to but in the best way he could. But he knows he has failed him. He has no right to worry about Kyle's teeth or jaw because he has failed Kyle worse than any friend possibly could.  
  
“You-” Kyle starts, but his voice catches in his throat. A sob escapes, harsh-sounding and guttural. Stan pulls him inside, quickly locking the door behind them. Kyle smacks his hand away, putting distance between them.  
  
“Kyle, you have to-”  
  
“No!” Kyle explodes, his face red with anger. Spit flies from his mouth, hitting Stan on the side of his face. “All this time, all this fucking time! And you were, and I just, fuck!”  
  
“Kyle-”  
  
“Shut up!” Kyle screams at him, his voice cracking. He's always been prone to drama but this time Stan will acknowledge it is well deserved. “You couldn't even tell me yourself. I had to find out from Clyde fucking Donovan!”  
  
Yeah. Yeah. Stan figured Clyde would spill his secrets. He's not angry at Clyde, but he is hurt. They did used to be friends. Not friends like Stan was with Kyle or Kenny or Butters, but decent enough friends to play games together and hang out at each others' houses on occasion, for big group events. But what does a shared past have to do with exposing society's evils? Friendship is inconsequential in this situation.  
  
“Kyle, you've got to understand, I was scared. I couldn't just-”  
  
His best friend's teeth clash against Stan's as he shoves himself against Stan's body. His arms go around Kyle on instinct, holding him close to him. It's a familiar feeling. He's heavy in his arms, just a bit plump, his backside ample in Stan's hands. Stan's eyes are open and Kyle's are not. He can see the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose. Like Caleb's, but different. Two different parts of the night sky, the constellations only discernible by somebody well studied on the subject. Stan is one of those experts.  
  
It's astounding how he still tastes the same after all these years, and how the taste of him brings Stan back to his old childhood room. He tastes like he did the first time Stan had kissed him. He thinks about how good Kyle had felt him beneath him, how good the young boy's cock had felt in his hand. He remembers the soft like whimpering noises Kyle made as he came all over Stan's stomach.  
  
And his mind is comparing that image of his best friend twenty years ago to his best friend now and rejecting this change. His body does not like this juxtaposition.  
  
He does not kiss Kyle back. He doesn't pull away, he is patient with Kyle, parting his mouth under his best friend's probing tongue, but he doesn't kiss him.  
  
Kyle pushes him violently when he breaks the kiss. Stan stumbles back, banging his thigh against the arm of the couch and falling partly onto it. The muscles in his legs throb. He lands oddly on his wrist, fearing for a second that he might have sprained it. He's getting so old. Ten years ago that would have been nothing.  
  
“I hate you!” Kyle screams at Stan again. He's crying, his face now not only red but damp as he cries. “I was never good enough for you, but my son, my fucking eleven-year-old son? He's what you want? What the fuck is wrong with you?”  
  
“I'm sorry,” Stan croaks. He pulls himself up off the couch with his one good arm. His leg is still cramping beneath him but his wrist feels okay with no pressure on it. He wonders if he pinched a nerve somewhere in his calf.  
  
“You're sorry?” Kyle demands to know. He steps away from Stan as Stan stumbles towards him. Tears still run down his cheeks, uncontrollable, but he sets his mouth in a hard line. “You're sorry? For what, exactly? Lying to me our entire fucking lives? Or for having these sick fantasies about my child?”

“They're, they're not sick,” Stan protests helplessly. He knows the words are ridiculous as they spill from his lips. He's not denying the fantasies so of course they're sick. He's always known they were depraved, he didn't grow up isolated from society on some island full of pedophiles. But he's done such a good job at deluding himself the last few years. He's nearly convinced himself that his fantasies are merely “loving” thoughts, not sexual depravity.  
  
“Clyde told me everything,” Kyle spits out, splitting the air with his hand for emphasis. “Everything. Every disgusting diary entry. Every horrible fantasy you described to him. You had over twelve hundred pictures of my son on your computer. I don't want to even think about what you did with those pictures. I hate you more than I've hated anybody in the entire world. I hate you more than I ever hated Cartman even.”  
  
“Kyle, you don't understand.”  
  
“No, I don't,” Kyle agrees, shoving a finger into Stan's chest. Stan takes a step back. He's not scared of Kyle, but he's intimidated by this angry, aggressive person. “I don't understand. What is wrong with you? How can you be, be attracted to kids? What kind of sick fuck are you?”  
  
“It's just, it's just how I am,” Stan replies lamely.  
  
“Were you molested as a kid?” Kyle asks suddenly, his voice going soft. There's something hopeful there, like maybe if he can prove there is legitimately something wrong with Stan he might be able to forgive him. “Is that it? Your dad? Or your uncle Jimbo?”  
  
Stan would love to lie and say that yes, his attraction to boys is some fucked up reaction to being raped by his own father for a decade, but that's a lie. A hug was deemed “unmanly” in their household, his father would have gone blind seeing his only son's penis. As far as he knows, he's the only pedophile in his family line. Not that they ever get together and discuss these things over a Thanksgiving dinner.  
  
“No, I was just born this way, I think. I mean-”  
  
“Stop it,” Kyle interrupts him, punching Stan in the shoulder. It doesn't hurt that much but Stan takes another step back. “Just stop it. Don't try to justify your perversions by claiming it's 'just how you are' or some pathetic shit like that. You want to fuck kids, Stan, you want to fuck kids. Did you end up joining those NAMBLA fucks?”  
  
“What, Kyle, no! They're, they're not like me. I don't believe in-”  
  
“I have to take Caleb to therapy,” Kyle yells angrily, throwing his hands up in the air. “I have to take my eleven-year-old son to therapy to figure out if my best friend, my best friend, has been molesting him! Do you know how fucked up that is?”  
  
“I haven't!” Stan protests, panic rising in his chest. He reaches for Kyle, desperately, but his hand is hit away with a quick slap. “I have never hurt Caleb. I swear Kyle, I have never hurt him.”  
  
“Right, because you probably thought you were 'loving him' or some fucked up shit like that. It's called child molestation, Stan, no matter what flowery description you slap onto it. You were molesting my fucking kid right under my nose and I, and I-”  
  
Kyle breaks off, overwhelming as sobs rack his body. He covers his face with his hands, freckled from the summer sun this late in the year. Stan grits his teeth and forces himself to stay put despite every cell in his body urging him to envelope his best friend in his arms and comfort him. But this isn't like when his grandmother died. Kyle is crying because of him. Stan is the source of his best friend's tears. He can't do anything to make him feel better but tell him the truth.  
  
“I never touched Caleb in any way that would be deemed inappropriate by anybody,” Stan speaks quietly, his voice emotionless. He knows Kyle doesn't want emotion. He doesn't even want him his sympathy or consolation. He wants to yell at Stan, vent his anger and years of frustration on him. But Stan wants to soothe his worried mind. “I never did more than hug Caleb. He was never aware of any inappropriate feelings on my side. You don't have to worry about your son.”  
  
“Like I can believe a fucking pedophile,” Kyle laughs harshly. He runs his fingers through his curls, wetting them with his tears. It flattens the curls on top, slicking them back like some pitiful emo hair gel. “I want you to stay away from my son. From my family. Don't even attempt to fucking call me ever again. If you see me on the street do me the favor of walking the opposite direction. I want you out of my life entirely.”  
  
Those words...those words may be the most painful words Stan has ever heard uttered in his life. He knew Kyle would be angry. He knew Kyle would feel betrayed. He knew Kyle would be disgusted with him.  
  
But he didn't expect Kyle to just outright hate him.  
  
He didn't expect Kyle to want to purge him entirely from existence.  
  
“Kyle,” he pleads, desperately, “Please. You're my best friend.”  
  
“I'm not friends with disgusting perverts,” Kyle says. “Just tell me the fucking truth, Stan. You don't give a shit about me. You just don't want to lose access to my son.”  
  
He hadn't even thought about that. No Kyle means no Caleb.  
  
No Caleb. No hugs. No sweet smiles. No excited exclamations of “Uncle Stan!” when he dropped by with ice cream. No watching Caleb grow, mature. He'll miss the lengthening of his limbs, the widening of his shoulders. His graduation.  
  
Everything drains from his body. Like that, he is nothing but an empty husk.  
  
He barely even notices Kyle leave his apartment. He sinks to his knees right there, a foot from the couch, and kneels on the hardwood for a long time. What's the point of even getting up? What's the point of anything? He just lost his best friend and the boy he loves more than anything in the world in one five minute conversation. If you could call such an interaction a conversation.  
  
Is this what heartbreak feels like? He always imagined it splintering like glass. But it feels more like it's been crushed into a bloody mess in his chest, like a handful of grapes.  
  
Cougar comes to him when he cries, nudging at his arms with her nose. He picks her up and buries his face in her fur. She doesn't fight back, just purrs comfortingly and licks at his temple, where she can reach it.  
  
By the time he receives the text from work that his contract with them has been “terminated” he feels so empty inside he doesn't even know how to react to the news. He doesn't respond to the text, just sets his phone back down on the ground beside himself, and holds his cat. His face is dry now, he's not sure if he's out of tears or out of emotions.  
  
It doesn't really matter either way. He has to start packing. What the hell is he going to do with his aquarium? He has to keep the filter wet and oxygenated or risk losing the fish to ammonia or nitrate spikes. He could list it on Craigslist but he can already see the ad for that. 'Looking for an interested buyer to enter into known pedophile domain to see fish tank.' Jesus, if his gourami dies he might just fucking break with reality entirely.

**Chapter 5**

By that afternoon, Stan deletes his Facebook. He's unsure if it was Kyle or Clyde or Heidi or Tommy or who knows who else, but somebody has spread the word of his encounter with the police. Facebook is the first visible sign of this. His friends start dropping like flies. His name shows up in numerous posts, pictures of himself included, with the warning to stay away from him and what his crimes were. Apparently he was found with excessive amounts of child pornography on his computer and has knowingly molested several children of both genders throughout Park County. Including a toddler with leukemia, according to the child's mother.

His phone begins to ring incessantly in the early afternoon. Or rather, it begins to vibrate, because Stan has his ringer off. The first time it is in his pocket as it goes off and he removes it to see who is calling, not that he can imagine anybody in the world he would possibly answer for right now. His mother's name shows first, then a slew of unknown callers, then Butters, then more unknown callers, then Butters again followed by Shelley and more unknown callers. He ignores the ringing phone until it becomes too much. First he simply mutes it and sets it on the kitchen table, but the screen lighting up every couple minutes distracts him and he finally just turns it off.

Stan cannot bear the thought of speaking to anybody right now. He knows he is physically incapable of speaking to his own mother. How does a grown man tell his mother that her only son desperately masturbates to pictures of innocent children? No parent ever expects their child to end up a deviant. Instead, he tries to distract himself by packing. He doesn't know where he's going to go, where he possibly can go, but he needs to finish as soon as he can and get out of here. Stan doesn't want to admit it but he's afraid to be here, where people know he lives. It's easy to find his address with a simple internet search and he feels like a sitting target for any pedobasher with a baseball bat or gun. Besides, really, what's the point of talking to any of the people trying to reach him? So he can be berated and disowned? Like he doesn't know he's a waste of human life. Like he hasn't tried to take his own enough times to prove that nobody wants him dead more than himself.

He knows he should kill himself. He's not an idiot. He knows his entire life has gone to shit. No family, no friends, no job. He's lost Kyle and he's lost Caleb, the two most important parts of his entire life. Everybody would be happy if he was dead, maybe if he just ended it now people might have a few nice words to say about him. At least they could say he had the decency to kill himself so the kids of South Park could sleep safely at night.

For some inexplicable reason, Stan wants to live. Even with the knowledge of all he's lost there's some stupid, deep human instinct burning in his chest to survive. He doesn't want to have his life cut short by some angry parents storming his apartment.

The knock on the door comes shortly before six. The thought of bat-wielding parents still on Stan's mind, his entire body tenses. Like a scared baby gazelle hiding in the grass, he freezes, afraid to even breathe too deeply lest the movement of his chest give him away. Only his fingertips move, trembling uncontrollably in mid-air as if some sort of palsy has overtaken his body. He lowers them slowly, concealing them behind the cardboard box he is in the middle of packing. It's heavy, half-full now with books from his still overflowing bookcase.

He is in full view of the large window that is set in the wall directly beside the front door. There are curtains draped before the glass but they are thin and a cheery lemon yellow in shade. Good for brightening up a lonely bachelor pad but not the best for concealing any movement inside. Still, they're a small bit of protection; a very small bit. They'll probably be the last thing he packs before leaving. If whoever is on the other side of that door doesn't kill him.

The figure is visible through the sunny curtains as a tall figure moves in front of the window, a hand pressing against the glass on the outside. Obviously male, the fingers are long and thin, bony. Stan's heart is in his throat and he tries to recoil further down behind the half-packed box. He fears gunshots through the glass. It would be easy for somebody to fire a few shots through the glass at the quivering pervert inside and make their escape. Who would give the cops any information on the whereabouts of a pedokiller? Would the cops even bother to look into such a case?

He has to be still. He has to be invisible. Maybe they'll just go away if they don't think he's in. Maybe they'll think he already moved out, or at the very least is out grabbing dinner. But if they think he's out they might just wait for him to return? Or maybe try to break in so they can just lurk in his bedroom closet or bathtub, waiting for his arrival so they can take him out with a silent, easy slit of his throat.

The shadow moves out of his view and another knock resounds off the cheap wooden door. It's ominous, like the tolling of a church bell in Stan's ears. He has always hated how those sound. Even on just any normal Sunday they remind Stan of death. When his grandpa Marsh had died his tenth-grade year Stan had covered his ears before the funeral to muffle out the sound of those bells but it hadn't worked. They ring throughout the entire town no matter where you are, echoing in your soul.

Stan has never thought he would dread another noise like the sound of those bells. And to think, he's lived behind this ghastly door for how many years without noticing the sinister quality of the object. The banging continues, followed by the jingle of somebody trying to twist the locked doorknob.

“Stan,” a familiar voice cuts through Stan's terror. It's high-pitched, somehow ridiculously still bearing that odd southern drawl after all these years. That voice is as resistant to change as its owner is to hardship. “Stan, buddy, are you in there? It's me.”

“It's me.” It's a stupid thing to say, who doesn't just announce their name, but it doesn't matter. Stan would never have trouble identifying that voice.

What could Butters possibly want? Stan doesn't answer his calls. His plan hasn't changed just because of who is on the other side of the door. He doesn't think Butters would go so far as to hurt him, it is Butters after all, but he could still be up for the tongue lashing of his life if he answers his door. If he just stays quiet and doesn't move Butters might think he's not home. But Butters didn't drive all this way just to be ignored.

“Stan,” Butters calls again, knuckles pounding against that damned door. It doesn't carry such a foreboding tone as it had just moments ago, but it still sets Stan's teeth on edge like a knife scraping against a dinner plate. “I know you're home, I saw your car outside.”

Stan curses silently to himself. He would punch something if he could but he's still trying to hide. He's a fucking moron to forget about something as obvious as his car parked out front in his assigned space. Of course Butters knows what his car looks like. At least one Sunday a month Butters drives his car to Stan's apartment and they both climb into Stan's car, which has the better heater and air conditioner, and drive to their favorite brunch place in North Park. Butters usually ends up driving it back to Stan's apartment afterward, the result of one too many mimosas or Bloody Marys. He always drives five miles under the speed limit and takes any corners slowly, cautious to a fault when in possession of another person's automobile.

There is no way Butters would mistake his car as belonging to anybody else. Even if Butters was totally blind to the make, model, and color, he would recognize the One Ring hanging from his rear-view mirror after how many years he's watched it sway and spin in the late morning sunlight. Stan feels a sudden longing for such a simple pleasure as a peaceful morning brunch with his old friend. It's summer, perfect brunch weather because the outdoor patio is open and they're close enough to the river to hear the roaring of the rapids just downstream. Butters always wears his sunglasses outside during the summer, his eyes are so sensitive and his long blond eyelashes give him little protection, and Stan teases him about being a movie star trying to go incognito with his mimosa in his hand. Will he ever be able to enjoy easy moments like that ever again? He just wanted to be out for so long but it seems like all his worse fears are coming true.

Stan remains quiet. He's frozen still, trapped in his own head and in his circumstances.

“Alright, I'm coming in,” Butters announces after a long silence, his voice unsteady. He warbles in a way similar to that of the few times he has thrown up after too many drinks. Butters is a lightweight, despite his height, and he isn't used to vomiting like Stan is. It makes him cry. “You better not be hanging from a rope inside there, Stan. Mary mother of Jesus, you better not.”

He hears the click of the key in the doorway and curses to himself once more over the stack of books. He never should have given Butters a key, but who would ever have predicted such a series of events would have led him to where he is today? Butters has had a key to Stan's apartment for years, almost since the day he moved in. Not just to watch over Cougar or the fish if needed, but for letting himself in to check on Stan during his lower points. Butters had been the unlucky bastard to find Stan after his first suicide attempt, covered in his own vomit, unconscious, reeking of days old rum. Butters had never deserved to walk in on something like that and Stan had never deserved somebody like Butters to care for him.

But Butters had never yelled at him for that day. He never even berated him for being suicidal; he just started checking on him more frequently, especially when Stan didn't respond to his calls and texts. Sometimes, waking up to Butters with a bowl of homemade potato soup was the only thing that stopped Stan from simply allowing himself to starve to death. Which, in hindsight, is a pretty pathetic way to kill yourself but Stan has never put much thought into how he does these things. He doesn't even remember tying the rope on his second attempt.

Just let Butters go away. He can't take Butters yelling at him. Not innocent, naive, loving Butters. If every other person in the world told him to kill himself he could take it, but if Butters wishes death upon him then he knows he is truly going to hell.

Stan tries to hide completely behind the box but he's not that small and the box isn't that big. He's spotted immediately. Butters stands in the doorway, the late summer sun shining in at a blinding angle from Stan's crouched position. It creates an orange haze around Butters' profile. Stan squints, trying to see if anybody else is behind him, an angry mob maybe, but when Butters turns to close the door it's just him. He looks at Stan, and Stan looks back at him, his shoulders already beginning to shake. The blond takes a deep breath and tilts his head up as if looking towards heaven. His lips move, silently, then he walks over and drops down onto his knees beside Stan, taking him in his arms.

“I'm glad you're alive, Stan,” Butters murmurs, pressing Stan's head hard into his skinny, concave chest. “I was real worried when you didn't answer your phone. Way to scare a guy to death.”

“Butters,” Stan gets out. That's the only word he manages to utter because then he's sobbing in the other man's arms, clutching at Butters' button-down shirt as if he were a little boy crying on his mother's lap. 

Butters sits down on the tiled floor beside him, crossing his legs beneath himself, to make this a possibility. He gathers Stan up, actually pulling him onto his lap which is ridiculous considering how skinny Butters' legs are, but it is comforting nonetheless. The hand on his back, rubbing in a set rhythm, is soothing. As is the gentle rocking of their bodies. Stan is used to being close to Butters like this, not just during sex but during his bouts of depression, but this is different. Butters knows. Butters knows. He feels more exposed now than he ever did naked in bed with this man.

“It's okay,” Butters hums, his lips tickling Stan's ear. “It's okay.”

“You don't hate me?” Stan chokes out. It comes out loud, almost a shout. Not because he's try to yell but because it's half statement, half crying. “Everybody, they all-”

“I know,” the other man shushes him. He's still rocking him and it feels so good. Butters is as warm and familiar as a mother's womb. Stan has the urge to suck his thumb, something he hasn't done since he was barely out of diapers. “I know. We have the same friends group, Stan, I know.”

“But, you,” Stan stutters through his tears. He breaks down into another round of incoherent weeping, soaking Butters' shirt with tears and snot. The buttons of Butters' shirt presses into his cheek and forehead, slippery with Stan's fluids.

“You have me,” Butters assures him. He kisses Stan's temple. The hair there is damp with sweat. “I'm not going anywhere. It's awful mean of them all to say those things about you.”

“It's all true,” Stan finally manages to spit out. He needs Butters to know the truth. Maybe Butters knows the truth. Maybe he's just as naive as he always is and is assuming the best. “I am a pedophile. I am one. All of that is true. I'm a pedophile.”

“Well, gee, I know that,” Butters replies. He pushes Stan away and looks into his eyes, his own soft and puppy doggish. He shakes his head but there's a warm little smile still planted on his face. “I've known about your thing for little boys since we were in college. It ain't no surprise to me.”

He..he knows? He has known? Since college? College! College was, college ended over ten years ago. Butters has known about Stan for a decade and has never said a word?

“How?” Stan asks. He tries to keep his face lax, emotionless, but fails, the corners contorting into a pained grimace. “How did you know? Was I that obvious? Why didn't you say anything?”

Butters shakes his head and reaches for Stan again, pulling him close again. He rocks them back and forth, his chin resting on Stan's scalp.

“Remember when your mom got you that new laptop for your twenty-first birthday?” Butters asks, speaking as softly as if he were trying to coax a scared cat out from a tree. The words vibrate against Stan's forehead where Butters' throat presses against him. “You gave me your old one because I didn't have nothing but my old desktop and that junky old thing was still running Windows 98.”

“Yeah,” Stan replies, seeing where this is going but not getting how. He remembers cleaning that laptop up. He deleted all the pictures. He cleared his history. He did everything to make sure there was no evidence of his unnatural attractions.

“It, well, it broke down only a couple weeks after you gave it to me,” Butters says. He raises his hand and wipes at his face where Stan left a smear of sweat on his chin. “Wasn't any fault of yours though, I swear. I just put too many games on it. Anyways, I did a system restore on the thing. It worked, but the system restore was from a few months back. It brought back your old Bookmarks. Or Favorites, whatever they were called back then. You had a lot of articles on there, about, you know, people like you.” 

People like Stan? Did Butters not want to say the word? Is he that disgusted by Stan? Or does he think using those terms is an insult? Stan knows he deserves any insults Butters can throw at him, he isn't going to get upset because Butters calls him a pedophile. 

“There was a mental health forum too, you know, for that. I don't know if you joined it or nothing but, well, you know. And just, Stan, I admit we drifted apart some for awhile back then, but I'm pretty sure The Suite Life of Zack & Cody wasn't your normal sort of show. And you had a lot of fansites for that show on that computer.”

Stan laughs. It comes out loud and uneasy but uncontrollable. He can't help it. He was so obsessed with that stupid show back then and he hasn't even thought about it in years at this point. Funny to think about what difference a few years can make. Back then it had been such a source of stress for him as he tried to hide the fact he knew anything about such a stupid kid's program from his friends. He had felt half pathetic and half evil for watching it but he hadn't missed an episode when it was on, had even recorded some of them on his old VCR. But he had lost interest after the second season, when the twins grew out of his attraction window, and barely even thought about it since college.

But that show had been such a large part of his sexuality at one point. It had been such a large part of his guilt. He had masturbated to it so many times and then cried afterward so many times.

And this whole time Butters knew about the fansites. God, that might be worse than the pedo thing. Just the shame of watching something so stupid for a couple cute boys. But he doesn't need to be ashamed, Butters isn't judging him. He continues to rub small circles in Stan's back. After a while of silent breathing between the two of them he shifts beneath Stan's weight, his bony knees pressing against Stan's lower back as he tries to get comfortable. The tiles must feel hard against his ankles and backside, and it's so hot in here that they offer no relief from the muggy heat.

“So why didn't you say anything?” Stan asks finally, when he's able to control his voice. He's still on the verge of crying but he has control of it at least for now. “If you knew? This whole time? You just let me go on pretending I was normal?”

“It wasn't my place to out you, Stan,” Butter says with a shrug. “I figured if you wanted me to know you'd tell me. I always hoped you would.”

“But I'm a pedophile,” Stan says, emphasizing the word. “A pedophile. Weren't you worried I'd hurt some kid? Weren't you worried about their safety? Weren't you worried about what I would do? Maybe kidnap one and run off to Mexico? Or like, rape a boy and leave his body in a shallow grave?”

Butters winces, lip curling up in disgust. “Jesus Stan, are those the sort of fantasies you have?”

“No!” Stan cries out quickly because God no. He'd be more likely to kill himself than a boy. He loves boys, he worships the ground they walk on, the last thing he wants to do is hurt them. He thinks about doing such a thing to Caleb, to hurting Caleb, and his voice cracks up again. “But that's what people expect me to do.”

“Stan, I know you,” Butters replies calmly. His forehead is shining with sweat. Stan thinks, stupidly, about how he wishes he had central air for about the thousandth time, before remembering it doesn't matter. He won't be here in a couple days. “I've known you since we were in diapers. You're not that kind of person. You can't even eat shrimp, let alone hurt a child. I always hoped you would someday feel comfortable enough to talk about this all with me, but no, I never worried about you hurting nobody but yourself.”

Stan gives up on keeping his composure and cries for a long while after this. It's just too hot on Butters' lap so they retreat into the bedroom and turn on the air conditioning. The other man holds him for a long time, Cougar sandwiched between their bodies, purring contentedly. She doesn't know she'll be homeless soon. She just knows that Butters is sweet to her and they're both here together. She feels safe between these men. Stan wipes his tears on his fur and she stays where she is, allowing this.

They don't have sex. Sex is about the last thing from Stan's mind, despite Butters' penchant for comforting with the act. But Butters does stand up to undress at one point and then helps Stan out of his own clothes. He feels like a child, standing in the middle of the bedroom with his arms up so Butters can pull his shirt off over his head. He can't even undress himself. He has lost total control over his life. But he's felt like that all day.

No, he's felt like that forever. Since the day he came to terms with himself he's felt like there's this thing inside him he can't control. Something black and large that entered his body somehow and took over his soul.

But this sort of loss of control is different. It isn't bad. It's nice to have Butters take over. It's a relief to just let Butters take the reigns, obeying whatever he tells him to do. Whether it be to undress, to go to sleep, or to throw away a pile of socks.

“Stan, these all have holes, do you even wear them anymore? Just get rid of them. You have plenty of good socks.”

Hoarding has always been a bit of a problem for Stan. The incident with Mr. Mackey as a kid had helped bring it under control, for the most part, but certain things he still finds difficult to part with. You can always mend socks and old toothbrushes could be used to scrub muddy shoes, right?

Stan is running on empty and Butters is right. He can't hold onto all this stuff he doesn't need. Not stuff like old socks and toothbrushes. He needs to finish packing what he can and say goodbye to his home for the last eight years. He throws away whatever Butters tells him, just thankful that his old friend knows him enough to know what he considers important and unimportant. He would throw away his large framed photograph of Caleb if he asked him to.

He doesn't ask him to.

“I don't know if I'll have room for your sofa at my place though, Stan,” Butters apologizes as he carefully wraps the picture up in several layers of Stan's t-shirts. Stan watches the boy's face disappear beneath the thin cotton. He tucks it into the box full of Stan's other clothes, cushioning it safely in layers of fabric. “You know my apartment isn't that big.”  


  
  
Stan isn't cut out to be a kept man.

He needs to move. Not just out of the suffocating confinement of Butters' apartment but out of town, out of state. Somewhere where he's unknown, anonymous. Somewhere that people don't know him. Somewhere where somebody will just fucking hire him.

It's been two weeks since Stan last his job and he has yet to hear back from a single employer. He knows it's really pointless even trying to find a job in South Park. His name is smeared. But even the places he's applied to further away from the town, out in Denver, haven't contacted him. He knows, technically, he'll pass a background check. He hasn't been arrested or convicted of anything. None of the ordeal with the police is on record where they could find it.

But he also knows how easy it is for them to Google him and find unofficial information on him. Facebook posts, blogs, Twitter. He's not the only Stan Marsh out there but many of those pieces include South Park somewhere in the wording; all they have to do is specify that he's the Stan Marsh living in South Park and his resume is tossed in the dumpster. He wonders if they even bother to do the official background check or if they start with Google.

Maybe if he moved he could escape this.

But any job, even if he lived in Florida or Texas or California, would still do a background check on him. They would still find his last place of employment. They would still call and ask why he had been let go. Even if he leaves them off his resume entirely, claim he's been unemployed for years, they would uncover the truth. They are living in the era of instant information, how do sex offenders find jobs these days?

But Stan can't just continue to mooch off Butters. He is not Butters' responsibility. As kind and loving as Butters is with him he doesn't deserve this responsibility. Not just that of having to financially and emotionally support Stan, but the hate he has been receiving when word got out where Stan was staying.

Somebody spray-painted the words “Pedo Fucker” on Butters' car while he was at work. He had called Stan in hysterics, sobbing over the phone, but had still insisted it wasn't Stan's fault the entire time.

In spite of all this, Stan misses Kyle. God, does he miss Kyle. Kyle's always been there, in one way or another. Even when he had distanced himself he had still been available to try to talk to. He has never just been entirely cut off from him before. It just makes Stan feel even guiltier about everything. Butters is willing to accept him and love him as he is but here he is moping over the loss of his former best friend who apparently wouldn't give a shit if he was murdered this morning.

Butters is the only person who wants anything to do with him and without Butters Stan has no place else to go. After all he's given him all Stan can do to pay him back is fuck him and cook for him.

And Stan isn't great at either of those things. He's having trouble keeping an erection lately and his cooking is a travesty in comparison to Butters' expert skills.

At least grocery shopping is a good excuse to get out of the house. Nobody can attack him for just buying groceries. That's a basic human necessity, eating. He keeps his head down whenever he leaves the house, hat pulled over his ears, Butters' giant sunglasses covering half his face. Nobody would ever think he was a celebrity incognito. Nobody would ever ask for his autograph.

He avoids the Whole Foods. That's where all the young, perfect families with their kids shop these days. Their parents purchase ice cream mochi for the kids and hot meals for themselves and they eat in the food court, congratulating themselves on buying organic, local groceries. That area of the store is always loud and boisterous, crawling with kids as they scream and run and shriek and giggle. Stan and Kyle used to have lunch there, sometimes, when Caleb was younger; they have a decent beer selection at the bar in the back. Caleb never used to run and shout like the other kids, he would sit in the booth beside Kyle and play his DS. He had been such a serious child, very much like his father had been at that age. After his second drink Stan would sometimes let his gaze linger on his godson, admiring the little scowl on his face as he died repeatedly at the hands of some boss.

Stan sticks to the local grocery store down the street from Butters' apartment instead. It's more business-like. More come, get what you need, and go. He doesn't know how old this particular store is but it's been in business as long as Stan can remember. He remembers it used to be his favorite one to go to when he was very young because there had been a Kool-Aid display on one end that showed all the cool stuff you could win using Kool-Aid points. He had saved up for a long time for an RC car but had never come close to the amount of points needed to purchase it. Still, he used to enjoy perusing the pamphlets, counting in his head the whole time how many more packets of Kool-Aid his mother needed to purchase before he could afford it.

Who even remembers Kool-Aid points? They seem like a relic of the past, like much of Stan's life now is.

He nearly bumps into Craig Tucker on his way in. Tweek is nowhere in sight; working, probably. Craig's holding Ness' hand and he glares at Stan, pulling his daughter closer to his side. She looks so much like Tweek today, her hair uncombed, standing out in all directions, and now she's shaking at the sight of Stan. Just being near Stan is enough to scare her. Is he the new boogeyman for the children of South Park? Stan wonders what the rumors say about him.

“Stay away from my daughter,” Craig hisses, shoving at Stan's shoulder as if to physically distance him from the little girl. It doesn't hurt, Craig is being careful with his child so close to them, and Stan wouldn't want to do anything that could harm her either. “I know what you did, Marsh. If you even look at my daughter I'll personally castrate you.”

Stan just turns his eyes away and walks through the doors, the brim of his baseball cap sending shade over his eyes. He doesn't want to argue. What's the point? He could tell Craig that, technically, he hasn't done anything. Wouldn't he be in jail if he did? He could tell Craig that he isn't attracted to the female gender, regardless of age. He could just simply tell Craig he isn't physically attracted to his child. But would any of those words be met with anything besides an insult? Perhaps a physical assault?

The store is freezing inside. The walls are stark white, the fluorescent lights overhead harsh. Stan doesn't remember it being so cold and unfeeling as a kid. But the entire world seemed less hostile to him as a child. He has a sudden longing to be near his mother, to be holding onto her leg as she slowly pushes a cart down each aisle. He doesn't even have a memory of ever doing such a thing, is he making up false memories? 

He wishes his father would let him see his mother, but Randy Marsh had given Stan strict orders to “Stay the fuck away from all of us.” He's a disgrace to the Marsh name.

He grabs a basket by the door in case something happens. A cart is too unwieldy. If he sees somebody he knows he needs to be able to turn around and walk away before being spotted. If that is at all possible. A cart is a liability. So he grabs a red plastic basket and heads towards the vegetable aisle. He'll need to pick up some meat as well, he's not going to force his diet onto Butters when he's kind enough to shelter him. He's not used to cooking meat though. Easier to figure out the vegetables and grain first. He can always just grill up a filet or chicken breast and serve it to Buttes a la carte.

He finds them loitering in the cereal aisle.

Stan doesn't even need cereal. He would buy it, maybe, if he were shopping for himself with his own money, but Butters doesn't eat cereal and there are other ways to get iron. However, he does need peanut butter, which is an essential part of his half-assed vegetarian diet, and it is on the opposite shelf from the cereal. When he spots them he knows he can't go down that aisle. Hell, he shouldn't even be in the same store as them.

It would be better to just abandon his groceries now and run for it. They're eleven-year-olds, there's no way they're here on their own. What pre-adolescent boys go shopping for cereal on their own? If they see him they might call whatever adults they're here with and, well, there aren't very many positive ways such an interaction could go. Best case scenario, they could be here with Tammy, maybe Kenny, though Stan hasn't heard anything at all from his old friend to know how he's taking the news that one of his best friends is an evil pedophile.

Worst case scenario...Kyle.

Taking a step back, Stan allows a crate of Coke to conceal his body from view. He's not hiding, he's not that much of a creeper yet to sneak around grocery stores to spy on underage boys, but he is out of view enough to not be immediately visible. Neither of them spot him. He tries to convince himself he's just waiting for them to leave so he can grab his peanut butter.

Liam is holding a box of generic marshmallow cereal. A poor excuse for Lucky Charms called Sugar Shamrocks. He stands to the side, trying to stay out of the way and as invisible as Stan feels, as Caleb grabs at random boxes. The blond is much smaller and more slender than the redhead and he almost accomplishes his attempt at disappearing. Almost. He's too stunningly attractive, underneath all his shame and neglect, to truly vanish.

“What about Cookie Crisps? Have you ever had Cookie Crisps? They get really slimy in milk, it's like eating eyeballs.”

“No,” Liam says, shaking his head. His bangs fall over his eyes and Liam pushes the blond locks aside with his slender fingers. If he had more confidence he would have the aura of a supermodel. He acts more like one of the ugly teenage girls in an 80s teen movie. “But Gramma said to get these.”

“I've had those,” Caleb protests, making a face at the white and green cardboard box. “At your place. They're gross. The marshmallows taste like sawdust.”

“Caleb, come on,” Liam says, clearly uncomfortable with this situation. He keeps moving from foot to foot, shifting his weight. “Gramma told us to meet her upfront. What if she's already in line?”

Stan's godson, his former godson, ignores Liam's concern. His mother has always been lenient with him in regard to anything besides schoolwork and the concept of rules is more of a suggestion than an absolute to him. That sort of attitude never would fly in a household as overcrowded and unorganized as the McCormick home. As neglected as Liam's upbringing may have been, when his parents tell him to do something he does it. He isn't used to going against authority figures.

The blond fidgets uncomfortably, the Sugar Shamrocks still clutched to his chest. He clearly is ready to go but his timidness is keeping him from saying so. Caleb chooses a box of Fruity Pebbles next, turning it around to read the back. Do they still put mazes on cereal boxes? Jokes? He hasn't heard of them putting prizes in the boxes in a long time. Has Caleb ever experienced the joy of digging his hand into a full box of cereal and pulling out a toy? The idea that he probably hasn't makes Stan feel a sad longing.

Stan knows he should go. He shouldn't risk being spotted by his former godson, even if neither Kyle nor Heidi are in the store. But he hasn't seen Caleb in weeks and it feels as if his shoes have been filled with a thousand pounds of lead. He wants to watch him. He wants to talk to him. He wants to be near him.

He wants to hug him.

Stan knows he shouldn't even be watching him but these stupid fluorescent lights that make everything else in this store look garish and obscene glow over the boy like the heavenly light from a Byzantine painting. He's had a haircut recently, the curls noticeably shorter, and darker looking now that the sun-bleached lengths have been trimmed away. He looks more like Kyle like this, his face more angular. Stan has a flashback of one autumn morning it must've been, God, over twenty years ago, of the boy's father in a very similar position. His head had been turned down as well, face all shadows and fine lines, lips turned down in concentration. That had been in the Broflovski kitchen and there had been a math book in place of a cereal box.

Twelve-year-old Stan had thought, at that time, that Kyle was the most beautiful thing that had ever existed. They had their first kiss over that math book.

They had their last kiss over the ruins of their friendship.

If it was only possible to travel back in time, to stop time. If he could be that twelve-year-old boy forever, in love and infatuated with his best friend. That was before he knew what he was. Back when his biggest issue with loving a twelve-year-old boy was the fact that he was also a boy. Homosexuality had been a much bigger deal back in those days, especially for a rural Colorado town, and Stan had thought at the time that being gay must be about the worse thing a person could be. If twelve-year-old Stan knew what was to come he probably would've locked himself in his bedroom for a month. Stan feels bad for his younger self, of how innocent he was, and how much he would still have to learn and experience.

Stan watches Caleb chew at his lip. He notices how the boy lifts one foot to scratch at the back of his calf with the other shoe. He catches the dusty glow of the soft red hairs of his legs. Kyle had been the most beautiful thing that ever existed that day, but that was before Caleb had ever come along. As much as Stan wishes he could have stayed a twelve-year-old boy forever, if that had happened, if Kyle had never grown up, then Caleb would not exist. And Caleb has to exist. Caleb deserves to exist. Caleb is like a ray of sunshine in the darkness that is Stan's current life.

Liam is the one who first notices him. Stan isn't sure when he spots him, exactly, too caught up by the enchanting beauty of Caleb to pay attention to the blond. But when he does happen a glance in Liam's direction it is obvious he has been caught. Liam is staring right at him with wide, deer-in-the-headlight eyes, lips parted. He's so adorable that Stan can't help the small smile that catches on his lips.

Liam doesn't say anything to Caleb, but Caleb isn't a stupid boy. He catches the look on Liam's face and follows his gaze. His green eyes pierce through Stan's heart.

Stan is ready to run. Or at least keep walking, because about the worst thing he can do is just stand here and watch them like some pervert on an elementary school playground. Not that anybody would expect him to not be that guy at this point. But he has been caught and any movement at this point will seem forced so he stays where he is.

The redheaded boy reaches up and puts the cereal back on the shelf before marching right over to Stan. He's still frozen in place, his heart jumping up to his throat with anxiety. As much as he wants to speak to Caleb he knows this is so, so wrong. Stupid. He didn't seek out Caleb on purpose but who would believe him? Who would think he would just happen to be in the very same store where this boy is shopping with his friend? Everybody knows about the journal. Everybody knows about his love for this boy.

“Hi Uncle Stan,” Caleb says, his voice serious despite the highness of it. He sounds like a little man with the voice of a child.

“Hello, Caleb,” Stan replies, voice already shaking despite his best attempt to keep his emotions in check. He walks past him, avoiding looking at the boy. “I'm just picking up some peanut butter, excuse me.”

Caleb follows Stan down the aisle. Liam moves purposefully out of the way, bumping into the shelves as he melts into the background. Stan's heart is beating hard in his chest, his fingertips tingling again. This isn't time for another panic attack. He's had enough of those the last few weeks. He focuses on the jellies and nut butters section near the end of the aisle, his eyesight going into tunnel vision. Why does he feel like he's drunk? He hasn't had a drink since last night. He could use one now. He needs one, badly. Just get what you need and get out of here. You can have a beer as soon as you get back to Butters' apartment.

“You ignored the e-mails I sent you,” Caleb accuses. E-mails? Stan hadn't even been aware that Caleb had his e-mail address. And which one is he referring to anyway? Stan has many e-mail addresses. “Uncle Stan, I had to go to the hospital. They looked at my butthole. It was really gross. Mom says it's because of you.”

“Caleb, please leave me alone,” Stan says quietly, keeping the boy behind him with a careful turn of his body. He grabs a jar of Peter Pan, not even bothering to check if it is crunchy or smooth or organic or laced with honey. He tosses it into his basket and quickly walks away. But Caleb isn't done with him yet.

“Dad says you just wanted to have sex with me,” Caleb continues to pester him. “That you never really cared about me. He says you told the police that you molested me.”

No he didn't. Either Kyle lied or one of them is confused. Stan's eyes sting with tears. He walks away from the boy, turning out of the aisle and heading towards the dairy. He's walking quickly, with long, fast strides, but Caleb jogs at his side, keeping up with him on his shorter legs.

“Uncle Stan,” Caleb says loudly. “Come on, Uncle Stan. Just tell me if that's true.”

“Go away, Caleb,” Stan hisses. “Go away.”

He doesn't go away. He follows Stan to the dairy aisle. People are watching them. He hears the whispers, though his head is turned down, trying to avoid the stares. He doesn't look at Caleb but he hears him, hears his breathing and the slapping of his sneakers on the floor beside him.

Stan bumps into somebody. He wasn't looking where he was going, it's his own fault, and he mumbles a quick apology. It doesn't matter though. He's shoved back, falling back against the shelves of butter and margarine. They shake behind him, several boxes falling around his feet.

  
The voice is familiar but his eyes are too wet and his head to foggy. Stan drops the basket in the middle of the aisle and rushes towards the front door. He can hear Caleb calling after him but his voice gets further and further away.

He doesn't stop running until he is in the front seat of his car. He starts it up and drives away as quickly as he can. He doesn't know where he's driving, doesn't even realize he's going the wrong direction until he's halfway to his old apartment. He's sure it's not a coincidence when he's pulled over by the police.

**Chapter 6**

The walls shrink a little every day.

Stan knows this must be true. He read an article once about painting reducing square feet of homes. Every layer thickening the walls just a little bit more and shrinking the living space to a little bit less. That article was published a long time ago, when Stan was sharing a dorm room with some other Freshman he can't even remember the name of now – Blake or Bradley or something – and every millimeter of space had been precious to him back then.

He had contemplated scraping the paint off the walls one evening his Freshman year, after a three-day weekend binge of cheap beer and even cheaper tequila, and probably would have succeeded in doing so if Blake or Bradley hadn't walked in on him with a pocket knife in one hand and a Pabst Blue Ribbon in the other.

There have been no additional layers of paint added to the walls since Stan moved in with Butters three and a half months ago, but that doesn't mean there isn't something thickening the yellow-green walls of this room. Dust. The oils from his skin. Maybe his skin flakes themselves, sloughing off and coating every surface in the room.  
  
Realistically, Stan knows that, if anything, Butters' apartment, sorry, condo, is larger than his own by a decent amount. His place didn't have two bedrooms. Well, Butters' apartment didn't have two bedrooms either, he was just nice enough to hand over his office for Stan to sleep in indefinitely. It's minuscule in comparison to Butters' master bedroom and to be fair, Stan does usually sleep in there with him, sprawled out across Butters' too-soft queen-sized bed. They don't have sex though. Not anymore. Stan is incapable of getting hard on command. They sleep cuddled up together, chastely, like two brothers.  
  
But sometimes, like tonight, Butters has an early shift at the veterinarian clinic where he works. And sometimes, also like tonight, Stan decides to stay up into the wee hours of the morning downing the cheapest vodka found in the town of South Park and blaring music.  
  
No, that's not right. “Music” implies multiple songs. Maybe even a full album. Listening to music implies you're enjoying yourself, or at least trying to forget your troubles for a short time.  
  
Stan has been listening to the same song on repeat for four hours.  
  
_I've been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks_  
  
This isn't the first time he's done this either. Not always with this song, but usually. Sometimes he listens to an Offspring song, or one by Three Days Grace, but those are more uplifting. Stan isn't doing uplifting right not. Stan is wallowing in self-contempt.  
  
This little ritual is one he can get away with because Butters does live in a condo and he owns said condo and people can complain all they want but unless they call the cops all the pounding and yelling through the walls in the world won't do anything.  
  
The neighbors aren't usually home anyway. The ones that Stan's room shares a wall with are some old couple that only visit when they want to ski or fish or whatever it is old retired people with money do when it's really hot or really cold.  
  
Why should they care anyway? They don't have work in the morning. Stan doesn't have work in the morning. Why bother sleeping? Why bother with sobriety? Why bother doing anything? It's not like Stan has anywhere to be tomorrow. It's not like Stan has anywhere to go. It's not like Stan has a driver's license or car to get him to any of his imaginary destinations.  
  
Well, he still has a car, sort of. He just gave it to Butters' as a half-assed form of rent after the blond's old junker broke down. What use was it to Stan anyway? He is a victim of an agenda. How many times did it take for the cops to get him to successfully fail the breathalyzer? That must've been the fourth time in a month they pulled him over that evening, finally targeting him successfully when his blood alcohol levels were high enough to warrant an arrest and a suspended license.  
  
He hadn't even been drinking that morning. Residual alcohol levels in his blood, from the night before. Barely a one point oh on the reader.  
  
The judge told him he could get his license back if he finished some classes at the DMV as well as attended Alcoholics Anonymous, but there is no way Stan would be welcome at either of those meetings. And so what? Even if he did get his license back the cops would probably just find more reasons to keep pulling him over. What's the fucking point? Why leave the house when you can just stay home, drinking vodka and masturbating to episodes of Kids React on YouTube? Secretly, of course, because if Butters knew Stan was capable of maintaining an erection he would be hurt.  
  
Stan stays inside, alone, most days. Sleeping when Butters is home and staying up half the night when he sleeps.  
  
_I've been drawn into your magnetar pit trap_  
  
The room is spinning around Stan's prone body. The bass of the radio vibrating up through the floor and into his chest and stomach like a purring cat. Stan longs for Cougar, wants her here to pet, but when he tries to sit up everything tilts and his eyes strain as if he were trying to see his nose. He falls back down and closes them, trying to dull the ache from his face. It makes the world around him spin faster. He feels like he's on a roller coaster. One of the kinds that spin you upside down and around multiple times until you can't tell which way is up and which way is down.

Vertigo. Like that old Hitchcock movie. Like when they went to Vegas for Kyle's bachelor party. What was the ride called? The Space Needle? No, that's in Washington. Seattle. Like where Kurt Cobain came from. Did Cobain have a bachelor's party at the Space Needle?

The Stratosphere. That's it. What a stupid name for a hotel. Was that the name of the ride as well, the Stratosphere? Stan's pretty sure it had been. Or was that the name of the drink he had ordered before going on the ride?  
  
It had just been him and Kyle on the ride on top of the casino. The rest of the party had been more interested in the strippers and prostitutes than going for a thrill ride. God, Kyle had hated that party. He would glare at any of the strippers who approached Stan, going so far as to actually stand up and storm off after Kenny had paid an attractive man in gold lamé shorts to give Stan a lap dance. The man had been large and muscular with calves like baked hams. Stan had never felt less aroused in his life and he had to deal with Kyle's drama afterward. As if Kyle wasn't about to get married. As if he had any right to feel jealous over Stan getting a lap dance from some twenty-year-old meathead.

But there had been no hostility on the ride. Kyle had grabbed for him, their hands clenched together tightly as the city appeared below them. Then above them. And it had felt like the buildings had torn themselves from the ground itself and taken flight overhead as the concept of gravity disappeared.

Only Kyle's hand had kept him seated in reality.  
  
Throw down _your umbilical noose so I can climb right back_  
  
Ten years later, it had been Caleb's hand gripping hard and white onto Stan's fingers. This time it had been on Space Mountain. Just the two of them, no Kyle in sight. No Heidi, no Noah. Noah had been a toddler then and his parents were more concerned with getting pictures of him with Mickey Mouse or a flock of baby ducks than making sure their oldest son got to ride whatever rides he wanted.

His first trip to Disneyland! The kid should've gotten to do whatever he wanted!  
  
So Stan had taken the boy off their hands. Had taken him to Pirates of the Caribbean, and the Haunted Mansion, and Splash Mountain, and on Star Tours. But Space Mountain had been Caleb's favorite ride and they had gone on it three times.  
  
Stan can still remember the boy's screams. He can still feel him pressed up against him as they took the hard turns. How warm his leg had been. How tight his fingers had clutched onto Stan's thumb. His hands had been so tiny back then, so trusting. So trusting that Uncle Stan would take care of him. Trusting that Uncle Stan wouldn't let him get hurt on the ride.  
  
It had felt like a date. Two males, wholly comfortable with each other, sharing overpriced snacks and shrieking with laughter as they shot at targets with lasers. They had been alone together for hours, not meeting back up with the boy's parents until it was nearly time for the fireworks.  
  
He'd put his arm around Caleb on Pirates of the Caribbean. It had been hot outside but damp and cold inside and the boy had shivered. Caleb had smelled of sunscreen and churros. His skin had been hot, overheated, the back of his shirt damp with sweat. Maybe the closest ride to the Tunnel of Love that the theme park had to offer. Stan had become aroused on the ride, no alcohol in his system, and the closeness of the boy had more stimulating than any dance that a gold-lamé clad stripper could possibly offer. There had been fleeting contemplations on that ride. Would the cameras see everything? What if he kissed Caleb on the mouth? Just quickly, before the boy could comprehend what had happened? What if he just touched him, just a little bit, down there, over the thin fabric of his shorts?  
  
But you don't take kids on the Tunnel of Love. Stan had known the idea was ludicrous, he was just too caught up in his own emotions. Caught up, not stupid.  
  
Caleb had climbed onto his shoulders for the fireworks. Kyle was always a bit of a weakling, skinny and book-obsessed, so by the time Caleb was nine Kyle struggled to pick up his own child, let alone hold him throughout an entire show. But Stan has always been strong; broad-shouldered with muscular calves. The boy had been heavy on his shoulders but the experience of having the boy's thighs around his neck had been far too enticing to Stan even consider putting him down until the show was well and truly over. Caleb had crossed his arms on top of Stan's head, knocking off his Mickey Mouse ears which Stan never did pick up or see ever again. Again, that was fine. Worth it to feel Caleb's fingers tangled in his hair, his sharp little nails digging into his scalp as he clutched him like a saddle-less rider would clutch a horse's mane.  
  
How reluctantly had he set the boy back on the ground? Only doing so when Kyle had returned Noah back to his stroller, the toddler cranky and ready for bed. He had been tempted to keep Caleb up there, the boy had been complaining his feet were tired so he had a perfectly plausible excuse, but it had felt unnecessarily dirty holding him like that any longer than needed.  
  
How long had Stan masturbated to that memory afterward? The smell of him? The feeling of his thighs around his neck? The paleness of his legs as his shorts rode up? The softness of his silken red leg hair as he wrapped his hands around his calves, keeping him in place?  
  
Stan had done nothing wrong but it had felt like it. It had felt like he had done something illegal, something somebody should go to jail for. The pleasure of holding a tired boy on his shoulders.  
  
_Cut myself on angel hair and baby's breath_  
  
Would a psychologist tell Stan that such an action, on his part, had been wrong? That he was being too self-indulgent? That he was setting himself up to fail?

Maybe.

They'd probably have something to say about the only piece of décor that Stan has bothered to add to his makeshift bedroom as well. The framed photograph of Caleb watches his every move. Stan remembers when he had first hung the picture up on the wall. That was before having his license revoked, before he had given up totally on any semblance of sobriety. Butters had looked at the picture and rubbed his knuckles together in that way he always has and stuttered about maybe putting that picture away in his sock drawer instead. As if Stan's godson deserved to be hidden away with his threadbare, brown-bottomed socks.  
  
His former godson.  
  
No, he'll always be his godson. You can't take away something with God in the title. God is infinite and everlasting. Taking away his godfatherdom would be like taking away a sainthood. Nobody could do that.  
  
Except God probably hates him. God will send him to hell for his thoughts. There's no denying that. Stan will burn forever in the eternal lake of fire.  
  
Stan wonders what he did to make God hate him so. What could he have done to possibly deserve these desires? Is reincarnation real? Did he do something horrible in a past life? Was he Hitler? Or Doctor Mengele? He was born before Pol Pot passed so that was an impossibility.  
  
It doesn't matter. Not really. God hates him. Kyle hates him. Caleb hates him. Even Butters' shrink hates him.  
  
What a laugh.  
  
'Come on Stan, she's really nice. She'll be willing to accept you, I'm sure of it.'  
  
'I'm sorry Mr. Marsh. I've never had any experience with treating your sort of...disorder. I can't possibly agree to treat you.'  
  
'Gee Stan, I found you another doctor. He treated Wendy's cousin for PTSD. He's really good.'  
  
'Get out of my office before I call the cops.'  
  
Butters tries. He's well-intentioned, he just wants Stan to talk to somebody who can help him, but what help is there? Stan can't be cured. There is no cure. Unless you read one of those “cures” on Facebook that are always floating around.  
  
How to cure a pedophile: Step one: Take a shotgun. Step two: Load the shotgun. Step three: ...  
  
_Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet_  
  
“Stan!”  
  
The voice isn't immediately recognizable. It's like the repetitive buzzing of an alarm clock while you're still asleep. Something you acknowledge the existence of but in a distant, far-away manner, only turning your attention to it fully when no other choice presents itself.  
  
“Stan,” Butters turns the dial of the radio down. He's standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of Stan's old sweatpants that hang down his hips but show off too much ankle, and a Sleeping Beauty t-shirt that is much too baggy on him. It's a pathetic attempt at pajamas and the first time Stan had seen him in the shirt he had laughed much too cruelly for a man relying on this individual's kindness as a source of existence.  
  
“Stan, it's past three, I have work, will you please go to sleep?”  
  
“I don't have work,” Stan drawls, lifting the bottle of vodka in a toast to Butters. “You're my landlord, not my overlord, don't tell me what to do.”  
  
Butters sighs, raking his fingers through his disheveled hair. He joins Stan on the air mattress, his too-long legs jutting out in front of him with bony knees.  
  
“I'm not either, Stan, I'm your friend. Give me that, you've had enough for the night.”  
  
Stan allows his overlord friend to pry the plastic bottle from his fingers. He'll be asleep soon, his eyelids feel so heavy, so it doesn't matter if Butters takes his drink away. As long as he gives it back tomorrow. If not, Stan will have to walk back down to the liquor store on the corner. It's the only time he leaves the condo at all but that two-minute walk is enough to get tongues wagging and reproachful glares from passersby.  
  
He climbs back to his feet and stumbles over to the radio. He turns the dial quickly, the volume jumping mid-word, but not to the same degree it had been previously. His head is already starting to ache. But he has to finish the song.  
  
“Can we at least turn this off?” Butters pleads, his eyes puffy with sleep. “You've been playing it for hours.”  
  
“It's my song,” Stan slurs, dropping back next to him. There's a dip in the air mattress from the other man's weight and Stan slides down into it, his hip pressing into Butters' like water rolling down the drain. He turns, laying down, and rests his head on Butters' lap. He feels warm and good beneath him, even if his leg hair is too blond and too long. When did his face become wet? “It's my and Caleb's song.”  
  
“Your and Caleb's song?” Butters asks skeptically, but he strokes Stan's hair anyway. Stan loves Butters. He's so nice. Nicer than Kyle and Caleb, both who have abandoned him.  
  
Both of them.  
  
Stan had found the e-mail address Caleb had been talking about, it was his old business one from when he used to do handiwork to supplement his income back when he was working minimum wage. Back before he started working at the hospital. Kyle must have had one of those old fliers tucked away somewhere around the house; the fact the e-mail address was still active was amazing enough.  
  
The e-mails were...anything but amazing.  
  
'Dad keeps telling me you were just using me. I don't know what to think. He's always right. Can Dad even be wrong?'  
  
'Mom took me another doctor today. A head doctor this time. She made me go over every time you ever touched me and tell her how it made me feel. She said you were grooming me. I need to go back every week.'  
  
'The kids at school keep asking me if you made me suck your dick. None of them believe me when I say you never did that.'  
  
'Did you ever care about me? Was I just a hot piece of ass to you?'  
  
'How were you able to deceive everyone for so many years? How does a monster blend in for so long? Do you have no conscience?'  
  
'I hate you. I wish Dad had never known you. I wish you were dead.'  
  
“My and Caleb's song,” Stan hums back in agreement, burrowing deeper into Butters' lap. The sweatpants soap up the wetness from his face. Kind, sweet Butters. He presses his cheek into his upper thigh, his arms wrapped around the man's scrawny waist. “Kurt Cobain wrote it for us.”  
  
“He did, did he?”

“Mm hmm,” Stan agrees. “For me and Caleb. He wrote it so I would have a song to play Caleb.”  
  
“That was nice of him,” Butters observes. His nails scrape along Stan's bare shoulders. “Why don't you come to bed? Cougar keeps turning around looking for you.”  
  
“Song's almost over,” Stan murmurs. “Let me finish this song.”  
  
“Your and Caleb's song.”  
  
“My and Caleb's song.”  
  
_Forever in debt to your priceless advice_  


  
  
“You don't have to leave.”  
  
“Yeah, I sort of do,” Stan insists, setting the box on the kitchen's bar. It's a putrid shade of olive green, very 70s though the landlord insists this trailer was manufactured in the 90s. “We've discussed this Butters. I'm not allowing one more bag of flaming dog poop to be dropped off on your doorstep.”  
  
“I clean up dog poop in the waiting room all the time,” Butters insists, “You know I don't mind a little dog poop. This trailer is a dump.”  
  
“And it's a five-minute walk from my job, and the only place that has been willing to rent to me. Stop worrying about me, this is best for both of us.”  
  
This is worse than moving out of his childhood home when he left for college. His mother had never doted on him to nearly the same degree as Butters is. Of course, she had also stopped talking to him months ago and Butters has been sharing a bed with him for nearly half a year.  
  
“But next week is Christmas,” Butters protests, lamely. “And don't forget about Cougar. Do you not care about her?”  
  
“She loves you,” Stan replies, keeping his back to Butters because, honestly, he might cry. He's been trying to not think of his cat and the fact this is a “no pets allowed” rental property. “She'll be happy to live with you. You have central air.”  
  
“But you're her daddy,” Butters insists, sounding on the verge of tears, as if Stan moving out really is the equivalent of a father abandoning his child. “She'll miss you.”  
  
“She's a cat,” Stan replies. “She'll be fine. And I'll see you at Christmas, you know that.”  
  
“But you don't even have time to hang up lights or get a tree. Are you going to stay in this dumpy trailer all alone during Christmas without even a tree?”  
  
As if a tree is the worse of Stan's problems. Stan isn't sure how he'll afford food with his meager savings until his first paycheck comes in, after the holidays.  
  
“Butters, I have a job,” Stan reminds him, turning with some composure back in his voice as he steels himself for this conversation. “I start tomorrow. I can't ask you to drop me off, you're supposed to be at work already. I'm happy to be getting back on my own feet, you know? I'm grateful for all you've done but we both know this is for the best.”  
  
Really, it is. It feels so good to be outside. To be out of that frilly, too-warm apartment. It feels good to have a reason to wake up in the morning and not drink himself into oblivion every day.  
  
This might all be a step-down. Stan might not have a nice apartment anymore. He might not have a good-paying job. But he has a place to call his own and a way to bring in some money. That's what is important for now. Maybe someday, hopefully, things will blow over.  
  
Janitor work at an office park isn't the most glamorous of all jobs, but it's a job. A favor called in on Butters' part for a dog he had performed the Heimlich maneuver on several years ago. It's impressive how attached some people are to their dogs, to the degree that they'll hire an infamous pedophile on their cleaning crew just to pay back the man who saved their dog's life.  
  
And the trailer...well. The heating works. And the shag carpeting might be soft, once he goes over it a dozen more times with his carpet cleaner. And it has two rooms! Bigger than his apartment, though the view isn't quite so pleasing to the eye. Rather than a roaring river, Stan's most prominent landmark is the trash-covered train tracks a hundred feet away.  
  
“I need to get to work,” Butters hesitates. He doesn't want to leave Stan alone, Stan knows that and feels for him. “I can call in though.”  
  
He already had to call in to have his car painted that one time. And because he had been pelted with eggs that other time. And there had been that one day where the entire vet's office had been closed down the day after Halloween because of the vandalism it had endured. Butters had insisted it was just teenagers doing what teenagers do on Halloween night, but the office had never been targeted before.  
  
“I'm fine.”  
  
“But-”  
  
“Butters, go,” Stan interrupts him. “I have a lot of unpacking to do. And I need to finish reading that stupid employee handbook for that test tomorrow.”  
  
It takes several more minutes of persuasion before Butters leaves through the front door, down the concrete steps of the rusted trailer, and climbs into Stan's old car.  
  
It feels quiet without him here. Stan unpacks for awhile, listening to the hum of the furnace, but after an hour he stops. He's thirsty and he's craving a beer, so he goes to his new fridge, almost bare inside, and grabs the first off a six-pack of Blue Moon. A moving in present from Butters, bless his soul.  
  
Stan sips at the beer from the location of his old recliner. He hasn't lounged in it since he left the apartment, it's been in storage, and it feels comfortable, familiar. The beer isn't great but it takes the edge off. There's a bare space of wall directly across from the recliner that just calls for a large photograph to be hung there.  
  
He feels almost content with his life. Unpacking can wait, for now. Stan might just take a nap in the chair.  
  
If only Cougar was here, purring contently on his chest. The furnace helps break up the silence of the trailer but he's used to having Butters around, of hearing the stomping feet of the building's other inhabitants. It feels empty without another living soul in the building.  
  
Or maybe that's just because Stan is living out in the middle of nowhere.  
  
More so than the rest of South Park, anyway.  
  
There is no familiar whir of tires. No children screaming outside. No doors banging. No squeaking brakes or revving engines.  
  
There are no houses nearby. No other trailers, even. At least not in the immediate vicinity. There is a strip mall just a couple minutes down the street, and past that his new place of employment. In the opposite direction is a convenience store and some old, falling apart houses. They're the sort of places alcoholics and drug addicts live.  
  
One of them is owned by Kenny McCormick.  
  
God, Stan is literally on the wrong side of the tracks. Stan Marsh. High school football star. Respected hospital orderly. Godfather of straight-A student Caleb Broflovski. And he's living in a shitty trailer on the bad side of town a five-minute walk from the McCormicks.  
  
How many times did they make fun of Kenny growing up? At least Kenny lived in an actual wooden house.  
  
At least Kenny has a license. At least Kenny doesn't have a large red P painted on his forehead.  
  
According to Butters, who saw it on Tammy's Facebook, Kenny also just got out of prison last Friday. A hundred and eighty days for domestic abuse, knocked down to one fifty due to good behavior. Stan isn't surprised by this news, how many times have both Kenny and Tammy been sent away? Tammy more often than Kenny, since she's always had the more explosive temper of the two.

But Stan still hasn't seen hide or hair of Kenny since Caleb's birthday party.


	2. Part 2

**Chapter 7**

The first time Stan sees Kenny is two days before New Year's Eve.  
  
It's late out. Or early out, depending on how you look at it. Stan is finished his usual seven to four-thirty shift and dawn is still two hours away on a particularly freezing winter morning. He has barely passed the entrance to the office park, positively speed-walking in an attempt to get home as quickly as possible.  
  
He doesn't have his phone on him, he's not allowed to bring it into work because of the “sensitive material” found in the offices, and he has nowhere to leave it outside, so he just doesn't bring it. But earlier, right before he locked up his trailer and started down the street, he had checked his phone and it had predicted a low of negative eighteen this evening.  
  
Four-thirty in the morning is about the lowest of the lows, temperature-wise. Is it negative eighteen out? Stan feels like his nose hairs froze on contact the moment he stepped out the back door of his last building for the night.  
  
It's the sort of cold that sucks the air from your lungs. The sort of cold where it burns your skin in a way that you can't tell if it's too hot or too cold. Stan's breath billows out in front of him, as white and thick as the snow on the ground, despite his shallow breaths.  
  
It hurts to breathe too deeply.  
  
There are things that could hurt worse than ice air in your lungs. Pedobashers. He hasn't actually had to deal with any yet, though there have been plenty of threats, but there's not a soul around to do anything about it if somebody did decide to just “kill off one of those kiddy fuckers.” He carried a knife with him the first few nights but, like with the phone, was told no weapons were allowed on the premises.  
  
Stan tries to distract himself by concentrating on what he does have. Freedom. The smell of snow on pine trees. The evening sky. He's afraid of dying, who isn't afraid of that, but he's afraid of losing his freedom even more. Every night he looks up at the sky and thinks to himself, 'If I die tonight, I want to make sure I appreciated this one last time.'  
  
He's looking up at the sky when the truck pulls up. The skies always seem clearest in the dead of winter, the stars whiter, their twinkle brighter. He thinks about the old Lite Brite he had as a kid, how he used to think the clear pegs looked like stars against the black paper. But those pegs had been yellow. Summer stars, not the immaculate perfection of winter stars.  
  
He's looking for Orion's Belt when the brakes squeal to a stop. The snow crunches beneath heavy tires.  
  
Who even knows why Kenny is awake and driving around at this hour? It's Kenny. Maybe he's going to work. Maybe he's leaving work. Maybe he's running from the cops. Last time Stan heard, Kenny had been hired back on his old construction crew and was working days on rebuilding an old road somewhere west of town.  
  
When he pulls his truck up next to Stan and yells at him to get in Stan feels he has no choice.  
  
“If it isn't Stan fucking Marsh,” Kenny laughs boisterously, drunkenly. His face is red and Stan cannot tell if it is from the cold or the alcohol. He's wearing a Carhartt jacket and an orange beanie is pushed back far on his head, his boyishly blond bangs hanging over his eyes. There exists this odd juxtaposition when you look at Kenny. Somehow, the man looks ridiculously young and needlessly old. There are some wrinkles already starting to appear around the corner of his mouths, most likely a side effect of years of smoking, but his eyes still look as bright and mischievous as those set in the face of the sixteen-year-old boy that Stan used to smoke pot with behind the school dumpster.  
  
Stan slams the door behind him and buckles up. He hasn't been in this truck since before Noah was born. When was that even? Right, some camping trip they had taken, just the two of them, when Tammy had taken the children out of town to visit her grandparents for a week. Kyle was supposed to come that week too, but Heidi had been pregnant with Noah at the time and had thrown a fit when he tried to tell her about the trip. Stan can still hear Kyle's quiet, subdued voice over the phone, telling him he couldn't go.  
  
“She has really bad morning sickness, Stan,” Kyle had explained, his voice dull, almost emotionless. “I need to stay home and take care of Caleb.”  
  
He could have brought Caleb, of course, but it was supposed to be a men's only thing. Caleb had been young then, too young really to be on a trip with a trio of drunken men, but he would have been safe. That was when Stan loved his grandson but wasn't in love with him.  
  
The idea of not being in love with him is vaguely startling. Has it really been only a handful of years? It feels like Caleb has been the center of his existence for as long as he can remember. But the last time he was in this car he was just his beloved godson. Adored, but not the object of some bittersweet, unrequited passion.  
  
The truck reeks of stale beer and there are several empty cans of Coors clanging around his ankles on the floor. Kenny has several days of blond stubble on his chin. It would be an attractive look on the other man, if he didn't look so haggard otherwise. His eyes look red but it's hard to see with only the overhead light of the truck, which is already starting to dim as soon as Stan closes the door.  
  
“I'd heard you moved out my way. Who'd a thunk it? The great Stan Marsh, living on the same street as me.”  
  
“Nice to see you too, Kenny,” Stan says quietly, holding his hands out in front of him to feel the blast from the heater. He's tired and his head is pounding. It's nice to sit down in a warm truck. While the brisk fifteen-minute walk back to his new place isn't the worse commute in existence, it's a less than pleasant experience in the dark in sub-zero temperature.  
  
“The old Collar price, right?” Kenny asks, shifting the truck back into first gear. The truck rolls off from the side of the road and back onto smooth pavement, the crunching ice beneath them reminiscent of a child devouring a handful of potato chips. “The trailer with the tire swing out front?”

“Yeah, that's the place,” Stan confirms. He sits back against his seat. It's warm in here, almost too warm, and the heater is blowing hot air right into his face. His fingers are tingling now, coming back to life. Sort of like the feeling one has standing on a leg that has long since fallen to sleep. He's already starting to sweat inside his coat. It really is hot in here. Stan wonders if Kenny is immune to the heat. How long has he been driving this truck around to get it this warm? Knowing Kenny, he hasn't been home all night. “What are you doing out at this hour, Kenny?”  
  
“Shouldn't I be the one asking you that, Stan?” Kenny chuckles. He leans over to mess with the radio for a second, turning up the volume on some country song he was doubtlessly listening to before pulling over. Not modern country. Not pop country. That old twangy bluegrass stuff Stan's grandfather used to listen to, back before they put him in the home. Back before he passed away in his sleep. “Were you peeking into some kiddy's window? Did you beat one out while you watching them sleep or were you planning on abducting some toddler?”  
  
“Very funny,” Stan rolls his eyes at Kenny's suggestion.  
  
He has no idea if Kenny really plans on taking him back to his trailer or if he just plans on beating him and leaving him somewhere to die. It could go many ways. He could sodomize him. Beat him with a bat. Stab him. Or he could offer Stan a cigarette. Kenny has always been unpredictable, especially after a few too many beers or a few too many snorts of his kid's Ritalin.  
  
Right now, he's obviously drunk, his words slurred, his movements wide and ungraceful. There's always the possibility he might just crash them into a tree before even getting the chance to do whatever he plans on doing to Stan, but, honestly, he's too tired to care right now. It just feels good to sit down. “I was working. At the offices just up the street. I do custodial work overnight.”  
  
“Yeah, I know, I was just fucking with you,” Kenny slows the truck down already, scanning the thick trees on the side of the road as he waits for the small clearing around Stan's place to appear. The trees do offer some semblance of privacy out here, though the coyotes that come sniffing around his place at night can be unsettling. He knows the yips and howls aren't wolves, and he knows even if they were wolves they can't get into his trailer, but some part of him remembers the fears of his ancestors. He isn't a caveman with only a fire and a spear to protect himself, but his lizard brain doesn't know that. “Your schedule is posted on Facebook. Tammy has it printed and hung up on the fridge. You know, so the kids know when it's safe to play outside. Here we go.”  
  
Kenny pulls the truck to the side of the road, shifting into neutral and pulling up on the parking brake. There is a parking space in front of Stan's trailer but it snowed heavily right before Christmas and Stan hasn't bothered to shovel it out. What's the use? He doesn't have a car. Side of the road works fine for anybody stopping by. Anybody meaning Butters, and now Kenny, apparently.  
  
“Thanks for the ride,” Stan says, already unbuckling his belt. He glances up when he hears the driver side door slam open. There's that sense of irrational fear again, always follows him now, when he's out walking the roads in the dead of night. That dread over how easy it would be for somebody to kill and dispose of him with little fuss and no witnesses. He thinks of the night sky once more, just in case.  
  
But he doesn't see that happening tonight. Kenny is showing no open hostility to him. And considering that Kenny is obviously drunk, he wouldn't be best at concealing such emotions from him at the moment. Kenny can be conniving, when need be, but drunken Kenny wears his heart on his sleeve. Or his fists, when it comes to his wife.  
  
“Can't go home right now,” Kenny confesses, following at Stan's heels as they both rush to the warmth of his trailer. The snow crunches beneath their feet. It doesn't sound like late December snow. It sounds like February snow. Ice-like, lingering, unwelcome. Kind of like how Stan feels lately. “She fucked Kevin while I was in. Just found out this afternoon, he left his fucking Zippo in my bedroom. I didn't break anything but she'll have a black eye by now.”  
  
“I'm sure she's already forgiven you,” Stan says stiffly. His hands fumble with the key in the lock, the metal already growing icy in the quick walk from car to front steps. There's a bottle opener with the Fender logo hanging from the chain and his key has somehow lodged itself into it. He nearly drops them trying to free the key.  
  
He's never been comfortable discussing these situations with Kenny. He knows the abuse goes both ways, how many stitches did Kenny get last spring when she smashed a bottle of Jameson over his head? But beating a woman is just something that was not acceptable in his family. His mother wouldn't have stood for such a thing, his sister surely will not. Stan wonders how her new marriage is going. Did she ever find a new groomsman to take his place? How do his nieces and nephews like the new guy? “She didn't call the cops?”  
  
“Nah, no cops,” Kenny confirms. He's standing very close to Stan, pressing up against him. He can't feel his heat, it's just the brush of the Carhartt against Stan's old ski jacket, and Stan realizes he's only standing this close because the tiny porch is too small for them both to stand on comfortably. It isn't even a porch really, just a large step if anything, but it makes him feel uneasy to have Kenny hovering over his shoulder. “You know my Tammy, she's no snitch. The jewel in my rough. If our asshole neighbors would only learn to mind their own damn business. I'll get her some flowers tomorrow. Just need a place to crash for a few hours.”  
  
“I only have the one bed,” Stan says. The lock clicks and he pushes the door open. It catches for a moment, swollen from the cold, making a sucking noise as the frame releases it. It gives him not necessarily pleasant flashbacks of working nights at a gas station in his sophomore year of college. The cooler had made a similar sucking noise back then, but now the cooler is the whole world outside, and his trailer is the storefront.  
  
“You have a couch,” Kenny points out, following him in. He shuts the door after them and Stan turns around to lock the door. Not just the normal turn-lock but two deadbolts he had installed on his own the very night he moved in, just in case. “It's nice having you this close, Stan. Can't afford a motel this time of the year. Not even the one out by the freeway. Six kids, Stan, six fucking kids. You try buying presents for six of them. I never wanted any damn kids.”  
  
Kenny pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Stan doesn't really want anybody smoking in here, he hates the leftover stench of tobacco smoke, but it's not like he's going to tell Kenny to go back outside in the freezing air just to have a cigarette. Especially after he was nice enough to give him a ride.  
  
Stan watches him walk over to the kitchen table, taking a seat in one of his plush faux-leather chairs that really are too nice looking for a dining area with peeling tiles and thirty-year-old wood panels. At least his aquarium with its impeccably clear glass and beautiful decor classes up the place a touch. Even the aquarium had been a fight with the landlord who had kept pointing to the “no pets” clause on his leash before Stan had insisted an aquarium was just a fancy planter, not a pet.  
  
Kenny clenches the end of the cigarette between his teeth as he removes his work boots. The snow is already starting to melt around his feet. Stan winces at the sound of dry, peeling fingertips against wet, dirty shoelaces. Nails on a chalkboard.  
  
“Well, your kids love you, anyway,” Stan tells him, one eye still half-closed in pain. He takes a seat across from Kenny and just watches him, ignoring his own damp socks and the throbbing arches of spending eight hours on his feet. He needs to buy some new work shoes; his old sneakers aren't cutting it and he can't wear the medical shoes from his old job. They'd fall apart in the snow or, at the very least, leak through and leave him with soggy socks by the time he made it to work. “It must be nice to go home and have a family waiting for you. I envy you, Kenny.”  
  
“Rose-colored glasses. I think you have this being a parent shit wrong, Stan,” Kenny taunts him with a little grin. He's missing his upper right bicuspid. Tammy knocked it out years ago with a shovel to his face. Even with the missing tooth he still has an appealing visage. When Stan looks at him he can see Liam growing up to look very similar to Kenny in the not-too-distant future, maybe with slightly more delicate features. Tammy is a very pretty woman, or was, anyway, before the gray hair and wrinkles, and her children are all more attractive than the generation of McCormicks that came before them. “As much as I'm sure you fantasize about daddy getting head from his little angels every evening after bringing home the bacon, that's not how it works. I don't even get a pair of damn slippers.”  
  
“That's not what I think,” Stan protests. He knows Kenny is joking. He thinks Kenny is joking, anyway. Kenny has always had a strange sense of humor, and an extremely dirty one. He's taking this far too casually though and it's making Stan uncomfortable. Who makes sex jokes about their own kids like that? He hates to admit it though but the idea of Kenny being...serviced, by one of his own sons, isn't the worst image he's ever had in his head.  
  
“I can't get no peace and quiet nowhere in that house,” Kenny continues. His voice is slurring more than it was, maybe from the need to sleep more than the alcohol. The fact that Kenny was able to drive indicates that he probably stopped drinking when the last bar in South Park closed at one. Stan feels like Kenny sounds. His eyelids feel heavy, his legs even heavier. The idea of trudging into the bedroom right now is exhausting. “If I could do it all over again I'd go back to senior year and just put on a fucking condom. Or at least I wouldn't have waited until I had six of them before getting snipped. A vasectomy is the gift that keeps on giving, thank God. Honestly, I don't even know if Rocky is mine. I think he might be Kevin's.”  
  
“Why do you think that?” Stan asks. He finds it interesting that Kenny is suddenly being this open with him. They've been friends for years and Kenny never mentions anything about being upset with the kids. Not in a non-joking manner anyway. Sure, he's complained about the herd of them but in a fond way. Not in an “I wish I could go back in time and make them not exist” Back to the Future way. “I mean, if it is true that she slept with Kevin wouldn't it be hard to tell? He's your own brother, it's not like he'd come out Puerto Rican or something.”  
  
“I was working in Texas most of that summer, remember?” Kenny asks. He sits up, resting his elbows on the table. “I visited for Starla's birth that one week so it could have happened then but, I don't know. Doesn't Rocky seem kind of...stupider? Than the rest of them? Not to brag or nothing but I've got some pretty smart kids. I mean, Liam is a fucking genius, gonna skip another grade any day now, and Rocky is still shitting himself. I don't know Stan. Just doesn't seem right.”  
  
“Some kids just mature slower,” Stan squirms. He doesn't want to discuss kids with Kenny right now. He doesn't want to discuss kids with Kenny, ever, to be honest. Talking about his kids could lead to other discussions besides who and who isn't potty trained. Besides, Rocky is friends with Noah, and Noah just brings Caleb to mind, and, well, he's tired and drained and if he starts thinking about Caleb right now he might start crying.  
  
“Eh, still kin, either way,” Kenny shrugs. He holds out the pack of reservation brand cigarettes to Stan but he shakes his head, uninterested. He hasn't smoked since college and he really doesn't need another vice. Not with his genes. One of the lights overhead flickers in and out a couple times. Stan glances up, waiting for the light to blow or something, but the flickering has already stopped. Shoddy wiring. Someday this trailer will probably burn down. “For fuck's sake though, like I wouldn't know Kevin's Zippo when I see it. Who else in this town has a fucking Zippo with a My Little Pony on it? I think I'm more ashamed to have a brony as brother that to know he's doing my wife. Better not have knocked her up. Don't want no more babies. I can't believe Kyle is having another one. It'll probably come out a downy at Heidi's age. I'm surprised he even managed to do it. She's such a frigid cunt I figured her eggs would be on ice by now. People say he knocked her up just to prove he wasn't a pedo loving fag.”  
  
“What?” Stan asks, his mouth hanging open just a bit. He has to be misinterpreting what he just said. “Kyle and Heidi? Again?”  
  
“Oh?” Kenny's eyes light up. He always has loved sharing gossip, whether it be good or bad. “You didn't know? Another boy. I can probably get you some ultrasound pictures to jack off to. Would that count as child porn if you can see the penis?”  
  
There is going to be a third Broflovski child? Another little Jewish boy running around South Park with half of his best friend's genes? Will he look like Kyle or Heidi? Will he have red hair and freckles? Will he be stunning like Caleb or plain like Noah? Or somewhere in between?  
  
Either way, Stan won't be there for the birth. He won't be there to help Kyle pace through it in some starkly white waiting room or dimly lit sports bar. He won't be there for the bris. He won't be able to hold the baby or read to him as a toddler or play trucks with him as a small boy. There will be a Broflovski boy who will only know about Stan as an urban legend, as some scary monster hiding in his closet. There will be a Broflovski child who doesn't refer to him as Uncle Stan. His mouth goes dry.  
  
What about Caleb? He's going to be a big brother once more. That can't be good for him right now. Not with all the stuff his parents are putting him through. He needs attention and caring, not another baby to eat up their time.  
  
“I don't suppose Kyle knows about that picture of his son over there, huh?” Kenny muses, glancing over Stan's shoulder at the school picture of Caleb opposite the recliner. “Jesus, Stan, are you trying to get thrown back into the slammer?”  
  
Stan shakes his head, barely hearing the words. He's so tired and there's going to be another Broflovski boy and his head hurts so much. His fingers and knees are both stiff. Kenny offers him another cigarette and this time he takes it, inhaling the cool menthol and allowing the smoke to draft out through his nose like he did in college. Happier times. He thought he was miserable, back then. He seemed miserable. But there were good times. Parties. Hikes with Kyle. School plays. Sporting events that Stan would watch from the bleachers, daydreaming the whole time about his own scholarship that had slipped through his fingers like the smoke now slips through his lips.  
  
He grabs a beer from the fridge, offering one to Kenny, but the other man knows he's reached his limit and asks for a glass of water instead.  
  
Stan excuses himself as the first rays of light start to paint the black sky midnight blue. Kenny is finally crashing, his voice slowing, his fidgeting less erratic. He seems like he's coming down off something; probably Ritalin. Stan retrieves a blanket and pillow from the spare room and tells Kenny to make sure to lock the door on the way out if he leaves before he wakes up.

  
  
Kenny doesn't leave before Stan does. Of course he doesn't. Stan went to sleep exhausted but Kenny went to sleep drunk. The blond wakes up at nearly two in the afternoon to the smell of fried Spam and rice. A hangover staple of Stan's for years, back before he gave up on meat entirely. He only keeps the Spam around because Butters' enjoys the stuff, he doesn't have to worry about it going bad, and it's an easy breakfast after a hard night when Butters deserves something better of him than cold cereal and bananas. Butters deserves more than Spam but it seems on par with Kenny's usual fare.  
  
This afternoon, Stan serves both of them on the blue and white china plates his mother gave him when he first moved into his old apartment years ago. It's not a full set anymore, a couple of them shattered and tossed in the trash years ago, but as a bachelor he has never needed that many dishes at one time. Not unless he's too lazy to wash them and the entire stack has made it into the sink to “soak” over the past week.  
  
He slides some fried seitan onto his own plate, his nose agitated by the scent of the canned meat. Salty and oily and heavy in the air, it makes him feel slightly nauseous. The smell didn't use to make him feel sick. It used to make him drool and weaken, craving the old standby that he now insists on denying himself. It makes him think of other meats he still enjoys the smell of, however. Steak. Lamb. Duck. Maybe he should just give in and go back to eating meat. One person skipping out on a can of Spam isn't going to make a difference to the meat industry and he already denies himself enough pleasures in life.  
  
Stan pokes at his rice and seitan disinterestedly, daydreaming about short ribs. Or at least a heap of chicken wings. He hasn't daydreamed about eating meat in years, maybe he has a vitamin deficiency. He should ask Butters for a ride to the pharmacy to pick up some vitamins. He sets his fork back down, his appetite gone.  
  
His guest, on the other hand, scoops the rice and pork pieces into his mouth like a man denied food for months. He also drains one of Stan's Blue Moons with the meal, sighing in satisfaction after each swallow of the beer. Hair of the dog. He burps, loudly.  
  
“Never had Spam with rice before,” Kenny confesses around a mouthful of said cuisine. He smells like old cigarette smoke. “Didn't know you could even cook Spam. Always just had it cold on bread. Better this way.”  
  
“I've had experiences with curing hangovers,” Stan reminds him. He drinks from his own beer, totally giving up on touching his own breakfast, or brunch rather, and waits for Kenny to leave. He doesn't have to leave for work for a few more hours but he doesn't feel like entertaining anybody today. Besides, he still has to walk down to the convenience store to pick up some canned soup, cheese, and another six-pack. If he doesn't pick up the beer before leaving for work he won't have any for when he gets back.  
  
Maybe he should ask Kenny for a lift.  
  
Or maybe not. Kenny shouldn't be seen driving him anywhere, not in broad daylight.  
  
“There's this place over on Oak,” Kenny tells Stan after all the food is gone and he's halfway through his second beer. “Marlene's. You ever see it? They always have tulips available. Tulips are Tammy's favorite flower. I must've wasted a thousand dollars on tulips in my life. She likes the yellow ones. Says they remind her of my hair.”

“What does she bring you, when she's the one who leaves?” Stan asks, curious. He's never even considered asking him that before. Never even crossed his mind that maybe that's something women do, return home with some masculine equivalent to the stereotypical flowers and chocolates. Beer? Beef jerky? A new set of wrenches?  
  
“She brings me home a blowjob,” Kenny snickers. He finishes the beer with one long swallow. “With that damn mouth of hers she needs to use it for something useful. I better get going, she has work at four. Need to get home to the kids.”  
  
“It was nice seeing you,” Stan lies.  
  
“Sure,” Kenny agrees. He puts out his hand for a goodbye shake, the smile on his face genuine. Stan slips his palm against Kenny's, their fingers curling around each other. Familiar. Like when they shook hands at their high school graduation or Kyle's wedding. Kenny's grip is hard. Very hard. Too hard. He's crushing Stan's hand in his own, much rougher and stronger from years of working construction than Stan's pampered grip. Stan gasps and tries to pull away.  
  
Is Kenny trying to crush the bones of his hand?  
  
He pulls Stan close to him, close enough his nose brushes against Stan's hair, and he hisses into his ear. “Just stay the fuck away from my kids and we're good, got that?”  
  
“Got it,” Stan breathes through the pain. And then it's gone and Kenny is smiling again, suggesting they meet up for a drink sometime after the holidays.  


  
  
“You don't need to come out here just to see me,” Stan gripes, but it's a half-hearted complaint. He appreciates Butters' visits, despite his insistence that the other man doesn't need to drive all the way over to the bad side of town to hang out with him in his mildew-scented mobile home. “But thanks for stopping by.”  
  
“I'd stay longer if I could,” Butters apologizes. “I'll see you in a couple days.”  
  
“Yeah, don't worry about it,” Stan insists. “I have to get to work anyway.”  
  
The gap between Butters getting out of work and Stan going to work is minuscule, normally. Butters usually works the normal eight to five, leaving barely any time, really, for Butters to drive over for a visit before Stan leaves at six-thirty. Not worth it for just a visit. Sometimes Butters does have to be there for the early shift, six in the morning, and he'll come over and treat Stan to a homemade dinner before he leaves. But again, those days are rare. Most days, Butters doesn't bother because, well, what's the point?  
  
Today was different. Butters didn't come to visit, he just had something to drop off. Something he didn't pay a cent for but something that nearly had Stan tearing up when Butters handed him the tiny, see-through plastic bag.  
  
“One of our customers was telling me about it when she brought in her dog to be neutered,” Butters had explained. “She said the people at the store lied and told her a ten-gallon would be big enough, and then they refused to give her a refund when she tried to bring it back. I thought you would like it, you know? You have a sixty-five gallon, right?”  
  
The fact Butters cared enough to even think about him is about the only kindness Stan has experienced in the past week. It's already dark out by the time Butters leave, it's only January after all, and as soon as he's out the door Stan hits the lights, staining the trailer with inky blackness. The only light comes from the comforting glow of his fish tank.  
  
His new peacock eel slithers between the plastic green and pink plants, sticking its long, twitching little snout into any crevice it finds. Smelling out its new home, surely. Stan's glad he already has black sand for the little creature to burrow into so he doesn't have to worry about it bruising its slick-looking skin on the gravel.  
  
Admittedly, Stan has never thought about adding an eel to his tank, but watching the beautiful creature he isn't sure why not.  
  
“You're pretty cute,” Stan tells the snake-like fish, bent down with his nose nearly to the glass.  
  
He grabs his acoustic guitar from one of the kitchen chairs, the one furthest in the corner, and sits down in front of the glass, watching the last of his pets as they slowly swim around their enclosure. He misses Cougar, he especially misses her at night when he's trying to sleep without a furry hat purring atop his head, but at least he's not alone. He strums out a few opening chords to a Weezer song, unthinking, just wanting something to do with his hands. “I need to come up with a good name for you though. Just give me a moment.  
  
He plays through the rest of the song then switches to a Green Day song. It's been a while since he's played freely like this, his old apartment didn't have the thickest walls, but who's here to stop him now? He might even get around to fixing the old amp that's been cluttering up various corners of various homes for the last ten years and plugging in his Jag. He usually just uses the app on his phone but it would be nice to use a real amp again.  
  
Life isn't bad. Really, it isn't.  
  
He has a place to call his own. It's a trailer, but it's out in the middle of nowhere, it's cozy enough, and it's larger than his old apartment.  
  
He has pets. He can't cuddle them, but they're alive and interesting to watch. It gives him something, anything, that is another living, breathing creature to watch over.  
  
He has free time to pick up guitar again. He has a computer to look up new songs and a recorder if he feels like doing some mixing.  
  
He has beer and decent food and books and music and television and Butters.  
  
It's not a bad life. He could be in prison. He could be locked away somewhere. He could be homeless. He could have his freedom taken away.  
  
Instead he has a new eel. He decides to name his new fish Kyle. He feels like it's important to have a Kyle in his life. He's always had a Kyle in his life and the idea of there not being a Kyle in his life doesn't feel right.  
  
Things are getting better. Life is getting better.  
  
But he still stares at the picture of Caleb on the wall as he buttons his coat up for the walk to work, thinking about better days gone past.

**Chapter 8**

_I saw Caleb naked today. I didn't mean to and I know I shouldn't have stared at him but I couldn't look away. So here's what happened. It rained this morning and he was outside playing in the puddles with the other kids. Were we ever that carefree? I can't imagine my mother letting me play in the rain, she would have had a heart attack over it, but I guess Caleb doesn't have asthma. Anyway, I was in the kitchen with Kyle when he came through the backdoor. He was so cute it nearly broke my heart. He looked like a half-drowned ginger cat with his wet hair hanging in his face. Heidi screeched at him to not move another inch, that harpy, and told him to strip down right there, one step into the kitchen. It's just a little water, I don't know why she has to be such a bitch about it. It's not like the kitchen has a hardwood floor. Caleb seemed embarrassed to get naked in front of his father and me but Heidi took away the wet clothes and seemed to take forever coming back with a towel. I joked with him to try to make him feel better. He had his arms wrapped around his chest, hiding his nipples like he was a woman, but not giving two shits about his genitals. Little boys and their penises, how they love to show them off. It was so tiny and cute I wanted to build a nest for it and tuck it in. I'm sure it looked even smaller than usual because he was so cold. He doesn't have any hair yet. I mean, it's not surprising, he just barely turned nine, but God, so cute. So, so cute. All pink and vulnerable looking like a sweet baby mouse. Except for that stupid scar. I've always tried to be open towards Kyle's religion but I still don't see the appeal in mutilating the human body like that. Surely, if there is a God, he would be proud of his creation. Why would God want to harm something as beautiful and perfect as a little boy's penis?_  
  
Stan stares at the fuzzy Xeroxed paper in his hand. He's been staring at it for so long he's looking past the words themselves. It's printed on fuchsia, for some fucking reason, and the paper feels thin and cheap between the pads of his fingers. The kind of paper his elementary school would send home the monthly lunch menu on. Do schools even bother with that anymore, or are parents just expected to check online? Whoever printed it off paid for probably the cheapest material possible, which makes sense once you realize how many of these were printed off.  
  
“You said the bulletin board was just covered in these?”  
  
“Yeah,” Butters confirms. He's rubbing his knuckles together, so hard that Stan would worry about him if he didn't have larger concerns on his mind. There had been that time back in high school when Butters' rubbing habit had become so bad he had rubbed them raw, leaving the skin cracked and sore, oozing plasma. Those years had been a particularly difficult time for Butters' anxiety, what with the underage drinking and smoking and everything. Butters had also dated Cartman for a short time their sophomore year as well and Jesus, that would be hell for anybody, let alone somebody with Butters' nerves. “But, but they're all around town, Stan. Whoever made them must have had a thousand copies printed off. Is it real?”

“Yeah, it's real,” Stan sighs. He sets the paper on his table and walks over to get a beer from the fridge. Sam Adams Octoberfest from last fall, knocked down in price after the convenience store fifteen minutes down the street had found themselves with a surplus of the stuff come February. Nobody drinks Sam Adams on this side of town and it's not Stan's first choice of beer, it leaves a syrupy aftertaste in his mouth, but beggars can't be choosers. He just received a twenty-five cent raise at work, putting him at $11.25 an hour. Not the $18.50 he had been making as an orderly but he's also not covering car payments or insurance anymore. Maybe this time next year he'll be able to afford some better beer than fucking Sam Adams. “I thought you would recognize my handwriting after all these years, Butters.”  
  
“Somebody could have tried to forge it,” Butters shrugs. He accepts the beer Stan hands him but just cradles it in his hands, not drinking it. Knowing Butters he'll let it sit there until it's warm then Stan will have to stick it in the freezer to cool it back down and down a half-flat bottle of beer on his own before work. “Who do you think printed them?”  
  
“Hell if I know,” Stan gripes. He picks up the paper again, it catches on his rough fingertips, and he scans over the words once more. He should probably just be glad they only printed this half of the diary entry. If they had printed the opposite page they would have exposed more of the in-depth details of exactly what he wanted to do to Caleb in the kitchen that afternoon along with musings of how he would taste, smell, and sound. How many times had Stan jerked off that night before writing that entry? And he had still been unable to help himself from pouring open his sordid fantasies onto the sheets of his diary's cream-colored paper. How many days had he spent with his heartbeat in his throat and his body aflame after that incident? How many times had he masturbated to the vision of Caleb's little penis in his mind? “I can't believe people would just leave these around town where kids could see it. Fuck, what if Caleb gets his hands on one? Or one of his friends?”  
  
“Do you think it was that neighbor of yours?” Butters asks, massaging the neck of the bottle with his thumbs. The bottle is sweating and the label is starting to peel already. “The one who turned you in?”  
  
“Maybe,” Stan concedes. He looks down at the paper and shakes his head. “Probably not. This page was scanned. It must be from the police evidence. If Tommy had taken the pictures with his phone it would look like a photo, you know?”  
  
“Clyde, then?”  
  
“What would be the point? Clyde already outed me,” Stan points out. He shrugs again. “Maybe. Why do you think somebody put them up?”  
  
“You want my opinion?” Butters asks. He licks his lips, nervously, but at least he's still playing with the beer bottle and not rubbing together those poor abused knuckles. “I think it's been too long. It's been like, half a year, since they took you in. I think somebody wants to make sure people don't forget what you are. They need to stir up the pot with something that will disgust people.”  
  
Disgust people. The idea is depressing. It's easy, sometimes, to forget that Stan “disgusts” people with his life. Nobody wants to think of their entire person as “disgusting,” as their existence itself being “disgusting.”  
  
Butters is understanding, Kenny is joking. He barely even sees his coworkers, only his supervisor for the sole purpose of being let into the buildings since they don't trust their employees with keys. Maybe he gets a few side-eyes at the convenience store but he knows not to even try to go to any grocery stores at this point. Too many families, too many kids, too many redneck fathers. Grocery delivery costs more but it's worth it to not leave the relative safety that is the mile radius of his house.  
  
“Did it disgust you?” Stan asks. Butters has never read his diary. He never discusses the sexual aspects of his disorder with the man either. Emotional, some, but nothing to do with penises and other parts of a boy. Only the softer, squishier parts of his longings. “I mean, you read it, right?”

“Yeah, I did,” Butters confesses, flushing. He picks at the wrapper on the bottle, shredding one edge. “Sorry, I know it's real horrible of me to read your diary entries.”  
  
“Everyone else did,” Stan says. “If there was anybody I would let read them it would be you. Not that I think you would want to read them.”  
  
“Well, okay then,” he replies, his voice still sounding doubtful. He inhales shakily. “Was I disgusted? I, I don't know Stan. I mean, I don't hate you or nothing. But I didn't like reading it either, you know? The stuff you wrote was pretty upsetting to me.”  
  
Stan feels his eyes burn as he tries to blink back tears. What did he expect? Golly gee Stan, I thought it was pretty hot, your musings on a nine-year-old's dick! It's unfair to just expect Butters to accept him or, wistfully, be like him. But wouldn't that be nice? To have somebody he could discuss this stuff with? Somebody like himself? Stan has never entertained the idea of actually being with a boy, he knows that such a thing is impossible, but it has long been a fantasy of his just to have a friend like himself. One he could talk about things with, not just boys themselves but the experience of it all. How it feels to be told you're a monster wherever you turn. The attractions themselves, and how warm and pure they feel from an insider's perspective.  
  
Sometimes, Stan feels like going back online and joining those groups he looked into years ago. He's been outed already so what does it matter if he's doxed now? But they scare him. The way some of the men, and they are mostly men, talk about children is just so off-putting. They talk as if the urges are something they spend every moment of every day resisting. It's scary and worrying. The anonymity of the internet hides so much, what if some of these men are rapists? Some of them talk about children as if they were nothing but objects, like a sport's car they want to take for a ride. And then there are the ones with the thing for babies. It's hypocritical, Stan knows that, but when he read the posts from some of those men it made him like vomiting. Babies? How far along is Heidi already? Four months? Five? Stan feels oddly protective over the unborn Broflovski boy. Given the opportunity, he would punch some pervert in the face for looking at Broflovski Baby Boy #3 with sex eyes.  
  
He just wants a friend like himself, one with his own fucked up sense of morality.  
  
“I shouldn't have kept that stupid diary,” Stan mutters, more to himself than to Butters, but the other man catches the words. “It already ruined my life once and now it's come back for a second time? I thought I was being so careful, too, keeping it on paper. I figured, oh, anybody could hack into my Google docs but a real, paper diary is safe.”

“It's not your fault he went through your dresser, Stan,” Butters says. He half stands, scooting his chair closer to Stan's so he can touch his knee. “That was real mean of him. Going through somebody's stuff like that. What was he snooping for anyway?”  
  
“I don't know,” Stan replies. He covers Butters' hand with his own, threading their fingers together. Butters has soft, pale skin, paler than his own, even with Stan's newly acquired nocturnal way of his living. His own fingers feel coarser than they used to, hardened from his return to the guitar which has caused the reemergence of his old callouses on his fingertips. His heart is beating so hard in his chest it's making him feel lightheaded, he needs to be distracted. “Did I tell you I finished the song?”  
  
“Oh!” Butters brightens immediately, flashing Stan a charming smile. He has such a wholesome smile for an adult man. Butters isn't the sort of man that women would feel intimidated by walking behind them on the street. He's like a children's show host. “Does that mean I get to listen to it, then?”  
  
“Um, yeah, but um,” Stan rubs at the back of his neck, almost shyly. “It's just...it's really personal, okay? I couldn't play it with you watching me. I'd be too self-conscious.”  
  
“But I want to hear it,” Butters insists.  
  
The song Stan is referring to is one he started writing on New Year's Eve when he had ushered in 2019 alone in his trailer. The rednecks down the street had been setting off fireworks and Butters had accompanied a date to the Black's annual New Year's party. Stan had been in a particularly melancholy mood that evening, brooding over the fact this would be the first New Years that Stan had missed with Kyle since...Jesus. How long would it have been? Didn't they miss it once when they were like nine? When Stan had been stuck with Butters and that kid Pip in a basement? No, no, that had been a meteor shower, not a New Year Eve's party. That was the year they went to see Rod Stewart together in Las Vegas.  
  
The song isn't about anything specifically but more about a general sense of being. The lyrics are just cryptic enough for the meaning to be unclear. There is a definite sense of longing but even Stan isn't sure if that longing is for Kyle or his son. Caleb has never ushered in a New Year without his Uncle Stan. Often, when he had been smaller and lighter, Stan had even been holding the boy as the ball fell, so his parents were free to kiss and drink champagne.  
  
“I sort of recorded it,” Stan says finally. He releases Buttes' hand and reaches for his laptop in the middle of the table. Probably the last MacBook he'll be able to afford in the foreseeable future, hopefully they don't release one of their infamous updates and make it obsolete before its time. “I'll e-mail it to you but, you know, my voice isn't the best.”  
  
“You have a wonderful singing voice,” Butters protests, digging his nails into Stan's jeans. “Remember when we went out for karaoke last year for Kyle's birthday? You were the only one of us who could actually sing. I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.”  
  
“Well, if you didn't insist on singing Beyonce,” Stan laughs as he clicks through his computer, looking for where he saved the mp3 file. “You need to pick songs that compliment your abilities and you aren't Beyonce, Butters. Same e-mail right? The Butterpold one?”  
  
“Yeah, same one,” Butters confirm.  
  
Stan sends the file with a few movements of his finger and watches the loading bar at the bottom. It's a pretty large file. He edited and layered it with some free software he had downloaded online in an attempt to give it a decent production quality. When's the last time he actually tried to make music? When's the last time he wrote music? It wasn't the first song he had written for Kyle, not by a long shot.  
  
“Hey, Butters?” Stan starts, still dwelling on that night of the meteor shower.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Do you remember Pip?” Stan asks. “The little British kid we went to school with back in third grade?”  
  
“Of course I remember Pip,” Butters says, going quiet. He reaches for the forgotten beer and finally brings it to his lips, taking a sip, then another sip. He lowers it back to the table, setting it down so carefully it doesn't make a sound. “How could I forget him? We were good friends for a while, before you guys let me into your group.”  
  
“Whatever happened to him?” Stan asks, curious. It wasn't like they became friends after the meteor shower or anything, but Stan feels like he should have at least remembered seeing him around the school but he has no memories of him after fourth grade or so. “Did he move back to England or something?”  
  
“You don't know?” Butters asks, startled. He almost sounds defensive, as if the fact Stan is unaware of the boy's whereabouts is an affront to him. Stan looks at him, confused at the little line across Butters' forehead. Is he angry? The line smooths out, the turn of his lips flattening. “Wait. Right, yeah. That all went down when your parents were splitting up. I think, I think that's when you started drinking, right? I guess it makes sense you don't remember.”  
  
“Remember what?” Stan asks. “I just know one day he was in class and then he wasn't. I mean, I don't think I noticed right away, I just sort of realized one day it had been a while since I had seen him then I just forgot about him entirely.”  
  
“Everyone did,” Butters replies, his voice remorseful. He rubs his knuckles again, looking down at his hands as he does so. “He was a foster kid, nobody cares about foster kids. But I still can't believe you don't remember hearing about it, it was all over the news. He went missing. Then a couple weeks later they found his body, out in the woods. Over by that old beaver hunting lodge. He, he had been raped and strangled. I mean, that's what the news said, anyway. They ended up arresting his stepfather for it. He's still in jail, I think, I don't know. I try not to think about it, he was my friend. Stan, he was only nine.”  
  
Stan feels like throwing up. His stomach is clenched, a pain pulsating deep in the bit. Pip was dead? Sweet little Pip? He knows, logically, that Pip was his age, but in his mind he still sees an underweight waif of a nine-year-old. Nobody should treat a boy like that. And he's been dead for over twenty years and Stan didn't care enough to even ask about him? What kind of person is he?  
  
The kind of person who would be suspected of doing that sort of thing, probably. Stan had met his share of pedophiles as a kid, the fact he managed to grow up untouched was pretty remarkable. Jared, fucking NAMBLA, Pip's foster father, apparently, even that old kindergarten teacher that had been fired for inappropriate relationships with boys. They had all been horrible offenders. These are the sort of people Stan has to relate to in this town?  
  
What about Chef? Chef had kept it secret for so long and he had done such a good job of doing so. As a young adult Stan had spent a long time thinking about his old friend, wondering if he had gone through the same waves of shame, fear, and mania that Stan had experienced in those days. Nobody had ever suspected Chef of being into boys. He had seemed like such a womanizer back then, a new one on his arm every week. Had that been an act? Or a desperate attempt to just force himself to be like everyone else? Had he merely found it impossible to have a true relationship with a woman like Stan finds it impossible to have one with a man? Even if he has been able to get it up on occasion, an act that he hasn't been able to pull off with even Butters for months now, that doesn't mean he could sustain a long relationship with one. Was that how Chef had been? Maybe he wasn't exclusive, maybe he repressed his true urges.  
  
Chef had been such a good role model back then. And he had been so good with them. He had never talked down to the boys like the other adults had but, looking back on it now, Stan can see the signs. More comfortable with him and his friends than their parents. Treating them as if they were more mature than they actually were. It's not that Stan would say Chef was grooming them or anything that extreme but how did he see them? He had always been willing to help them, even going so far as to buying them tickets out of the country when he had mistaken a childish prank for a murder involving their old teacher. Surely Chef cared about them, maybe in the same way that Stan cares about Caleb. Did Chef have a Caleb? What if it was himself? What if it was Kyle? Or maybe some random kid two years below them that Stan didn't even know the name of?  
  
He had been a good role model to them back then and he could've been a good role model to Stan now, if he hadn't lost it. Now he serves as more of a warning. Even Chef, kind-hearted as he was, offended in the end. Just like everyone says, in the end there is no such thing as a non-offending pedophile. Eventually, all of them will become a rapist, it's just a matter of time and opportunity.  
  
The only good pedophile is a dead pedophile, right?  
  
“Stan,” Butters says, “Stan? Are you okay?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay,” Stan says, breaking out of his daze. “Just thinking.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Nothing important,” he lies. “How's Cougar doing? Is she still gaining weight?”  
  


  
  
  
There was a time when Stan Marsh was a relatively fit young man. No, more than that. He had been an accomplished athlete. He was never a powerhouse of a teen but he had been a highly celebrated football player with bulging calf muscles and a six-pack. A semi-celebrity among the sports-obsessed crowds of a small-town high school. Many of his female peers had been interested in dating him, in varying degrees, and there had been talk about athletic scholarships looming in his foreseeable future. That future had seemed bright.  
  
But that was over a decade ago. The scholarships had slipped through his fingers as fluidly as the muscle had melted off his bones. Stan Marsh at the age of 34 is lanky, underweight, anemic, and showing the first hints of a beer belly from too many liquid meals. However, even if he was the Stan Marsh of sixteen years ago he wouldn't be able to take on a whole group of men. But maybe he would have had a better chance of outrunning them.  
  
It happens on a Tuesday night. Or rather, an early Wednesday morning.  
  
He sees them coming long before they see him. Nothing but a flash of light off in the distance at first like some arctic firefly, flicking over the bumps and potholes of a long-neglected road. Shortly afterward, Stan's overly alert ears catch the revving of multiple engines.  
  
Their appearance isn't met entirely without warning. No, they gave him plenty of notice. How many men have spit on him within the last week? How many threatening letters have been slipped into his mailbox? Butters had told him to call the cops, to show them the letters at the very least because they were handwritten and would probably show a fingerprint or two in the system. What was the use of going to the police though? It was somebody in their office that had leaked his journal entries to the public, after all. What did he expect them to do? Have the cops assign him a bodyguard?  
  
So Stan stashed the letters in a shoebox under his bed and told Butters to not worry about him. How many months has it been since he was outed, and nobody has attacked him yet? They were just empty threats, right?  
  
When the lights flash and engines roar, he knows the threats were not empty.  
  
There are four directions he can go. Back, towards the office park, maybe hope to see one of his coworkers there, and hope one of said coworkers would be willing to give him a lift. Forwards, as he already is, just pretending everything is fine and dandy and continue on his way home. Across the street, into the snowy fields that lead off into the forest. The fields are pure and untouched with little more than a brush or stray tree to break up their monotony. Or towards the trees on his side of the road. This last choice is taken from him almost immediately when a train roars by with a long line of cargo boxes flying behind it.  
  
Stan decides to follow none of these paths. Running across the street is just asking to be mowed down by the quickly approaching vehicles. Instead, he simply tries to disappear from sight. He crouches as best as he can off to the side by some old dead and yellowed weeds poking through the snow, the wind from the train only feet away blowing past him, ruffling his hair. The wind is sharp and cold and he turns his face down to avoid the biting force of it. The ground smells like old snow and frozen dirt.  
  
He can't hide. In all likelihood, they were probably waiting for him. Everybody in town knows his schedule, this isn't happenstance. He swore he saw a small light, like that of a cellphone, glowing inside the window of the nail parlor located in the strip mall near his work. The owner? An employee? Just some random redneck given permission to lurk and wait for him to walk by? Giving the signal as soon as he passes by.  
  
There are three truckloads of them. They slow down as they near him, looking for him, their high beams on. If a cop were to drive by now he might think they were attempting a deer-jacking. Not a good time of year for it though, they're skinny from winter and have already dropped their impressive antlers. They might still be pulled in for such a thing, however, unless they just told the cop the truth.  
  
'No officer, we ain't deer-jacking. We're just looking for some pedos to bash.'  
  
'Alright, move along then gentlemen.'  
  
If the train had kept passing by they might have missed him entirely, the shadows concealing his shrunken profile. But the last of the rattling cars shoots by him and the light of the full moon suddenly illuminates Stan, a dark spot against the white snow. Despite Stan's best efforts to stay still and invisible, evoking the spirit of a snow hare, one of them must still have decent eyesight because he hears a shout of “There he is!” Stan bolts for it, heading towards the field, towards the forest, but he doesn't make it very far. His feel stumble over the railroad ties and he goes down, smacking his chin in the fall. Dazed, he tastes blood.  
  
They don't even gag him. There is no point in it, nobody will hear them out here at nearly five in the morning and if they do? Well. He's just getting what he has coming to him, surely. Nobody will report them, nobody will call the cops.  
  
The men don't even bother to hide their faces. Stan is sure that they want him to know who they are. Men he's known his entire life, some of them older than himself, some of them younger. Friends of his father, boys who he may have had crushes on only five years ago. Some of them are his own age. Scott Malkinson kicks Stan in the ribs as he tries to sit up in the bed of the truck they throw him into. The metal is like ice against Stan's body, seeping quickly through his jeans and jacket and sapping the warmth from his body. Feels good against his split lip and throbbing chin though.  
  
Stan manages to squirm onto his back but one of the men shouts at him to stay still and, remembering the kick from Scott, he doesn't attempt to sit up. He lays on his back, breathing heavily, the taste of warm copper dripping into his mouth. The wind is cold and makes his head ache, or maybe the ache is from the fall. The sky overhead is clear, black except for the nearly full moon to the side. He watches the stars from the bed of the truck, the ropes digging into his wrists, and tries to control his breathing. In, out, in, out. If he can meditate, if he can put himself in a strong enough trance, he might be able to lose a sense of his surroundings. He might be able to die an easy death.  
  
He doesn't want to die, he really doesn't. He wants to just go home and feed his gourami and his eel and have a beer and re-watch an episode or two of Strange Things and maybe masturbate before falling asleep. He thinks of his warm, comfortable bed.  
  
The meditation isn't working. He doesn't really expect it to, he hasn't meditated regularly since his mid-20s. He fell out of the habit with the dual responsibilities of work and maintaining a schedule of being a functional alcoholic. It used to work. For a short time, at the end of college, meditation had sustained him through more than one panic attack. It had even helped him through a few suicidal episodes. But for meditation to work you need to be consistent in times of peace or it is impossible in times of stress.  
  
Being kidnapped by a group of men who want nothing more than to see you die a horrible death probably qualifies as a time of stress.  
  
If he dies now he won't see Caleb one last time. Caleb. Stan closes his eyes, the stars still glowing against his eyelids, and thinks of the boy. He thinks of his smile, his laugh, the way his eyes glow when he's excited. This is nearly as good as meditation. He imagines Caleb is sitting with him in a grassy meadow on a warm day, trying to distance himself from reality.  
  
The road goes from paved to dirt, the rocks and sand beneath the tires tossing Stan in multiple directions. His head bangs repeatedly against the cold metal, his teeth knock together from the force. He thinks he might have chipped a tooth but it's hard to tell. He licks his teeth but they're sleek with blood.  
  
He feels the truck stop and hears the engines of the other two cut off. The hatch slams down but he can't see it from his angle, he is facing the opposite way. The truck sways as men climb up into the back. Hands grab him. Some bare, some gloved. Stan clenches his eyes shut, breathing through his nose, and thinks of Caleb's eyes. He thinks of how they always glowed so vibrantly green against his rusty orange scarf on cold winter days. He thinks of the way his red curls fell across those eyes, playfully charming. He thinks of how perfect a picture he made on cool autumn evenings, with the leaves swirling around him.  
  
Stan is dragged out of the back of the truck. His knee bangs against the side of the truck, sending jolts of pain along that leg. He stumbles between the arms of two men, both of them much larger than himself, but his feet are still tied together and he quickly loses his footing. He is being dragged, snow fills his socks. His shoulders scream from the pressure, not used to supporting the weight of his entire body. His hands ball up into useless fists, his nails digging into his palms. To one side he spots a building and it takes him a moment to recognize it. The old beaver lodge. They've taken him to the old beaver lodge to be executed.  
  
They throw him on the ground and demand to know if he knows why he's here. How could he not? A piece of fuchsia paper is shoved against his nose, angry words spit into his face. His face is wet with tears.  
  
“Did the Broflovski kid cry when you raped him, you sick fuck?”  
  
Stan denies it. He tells them he never hurt any kid. He cries out, pleadingly, for them not to hurt him, begging them to show some humanity, but that seems to be the trigger. `  
  
When they start to hit him Stan can do little else besides curl up into a ball and try to shield his face in his knees. His hands are still tied behind his back. There is a long pause before it begins, like maybe they are hesitating. The first strike is a kick to his lower back, aiming for his kidneys. Then they're all on him, a crowd of closely packed figures so dense the moonlight is blotted out of existence. Stan writhes on the snow, trying to avoid them, but the blows are coming from all directions.  
  
Mostly there are feet and fists but somebody has what he thinks is a bat. He can't tell, he can't see it, but it's too thick to be something like a tire iron, too blunt. He feels it mostly on his legs, the swing of it sounding muffled against his thick clothing, like the sound of a baseball in an old glove. The voices around him are shouting and laughing and taunting. They spit on him. A kick to his temple leaves his head swimming. Everything blurs, even the sound.  
  
Stan wishes he would pass out. The world tilts and he knows he's about to. He sees the edge of the roof of the lodge in the distance and wonders if anybody will find his body out here. This is where Pip died, too. Does his ghost haunt these woods? Will he spurn Stan's right to inhabit this area?  
  
He screams as he feels something snap in his forearm.  
  
“We should shove something up his ass just like he did to that kid,” Thomas Tucker laughs. “Somebody grab a stick.”  
  
Those are the last word Stan Marsh hears.  
  
He tastes blood.  
  
He's being torn apart.  
  
He's cold. He shivers. The snow beneath him is wet with blood, against his bare skin. Already starting to freeze.  
  
The world shakes all around him.  
  
The ground is hard and smooth.  
  
The beeping is like a needle through his head. Did he take out the garbage?  
  
The ceiling is white. Why are the lights on?  
  
“Get him ready for surgery.”

**Chapter 9**

February 25, 2019

If for no other reason, Stan is thankful that he is being released from the hospital today just because the smell of flowers is starting to become overwhelming. A light floral scent is one thing, a warm summer breeze carrying the aroma of lilacs across a backyard, but the overwhelmingly cloying stench of a hospital room packed full of nearly every flower known to man is an entirely different matter.

Stan knows he should probably feel grateful. The smell is a reminder that somebody, anybody, cares enough about him to bother to buy him flowers. Even though that one person is just Butters, who has brought along a different bouquet with him nearly every day he has visited for the last ten days in a row. But somebody, anybody, is better than nobody.

Ten days. This is going to hit him hard financially. Stan doesn't have insurance so not only does he have to worry about medical bills but he also needs to figure out how he's going to cover rent and his other expenses for the next couple months. His budget is going to be stretched thinner than the cheap hospital gown this shitty place has got him in. At least he still has a job, they could have fired him for being unavailable to cover his shifts.

But he'll be out soon. Within the hour, hopefully. Within a half-hour if he's really lucky. The doctor has given him the clear to go back to work starting tonight, so he knows he will be out soon, but it's going to be an unpleasant experience with his broken arm and a limp from his bad leg. There is nothing terribly wrong with his knee, besides some swelling. But when he had been found strewn out on the sidewalk in front of the hospital it had been knocked out of joint. Luckily he had already been put under when they had popped it back into place.

At least his torn rectum has mostly healed up. After they had picked out the splinters and sewn his torn flesh shut.

The nurse, a twig-thin woman with a drawn face who gives him dirty looks and keeps “accidentally” dropping his silverware on the ground when she brings him food, tells him he needs to start getting ready. She's been here nearly every day throughout Stan's entire stay and he doesn't even know her name. Frankly, he's been too scared to ask it after he forgot it the first day. You'd think he deserved some slack, he had been barely conscious, waking and passing back out periodically, but she had never offered it up a second time. It could be Angela or Sarah or Savanna for all he knows.

“I know you want to get out of here as much as I want you gone,” she tells him, pulling down the baby blue blankets as if he can't do it himself. He has a broken arm, not a broken spine, for God's sake. She turns and pulls open the shades of the window next, flooding the room with sunlight. There had been a flurry last night and the branches outside are heavy with new snow. The white sparkles in the morning light, as untouched and pure as if it were an ornament on a Christmas tree. “Come on, don't lie there like you're one of the paraplegics on the second floor. Get up, get ready.”

Stan isn't exactly sure what she means by “get ready.” He doesn't have much to pack and he doesn't want to shower until he's home. The luxury of a nice, hot bath sounds heavenly. But she's standing by the window, tapping her foot impatiently, so he slips clumsily out of his hospital bed, leaning all his weight onto his good leg. She immediately begins to strip the bedding, muttering something angrily under her breath about how she's a nurse not a damn maid.

Butters arrives at exactly eight but this time there is no bouquet of flowers. Instead, he's gripping a canvas tote bag covered in multi-colored kittens in various positions. He hands the bag to Stan. It contains a pair of plain charcoal sweatpants and his Nintendo hoodie. Thank God, he doesn't know if he can deal with anything too tight right now, between a heavy cast and a bum knee. 

The blond closes the door behind himself, shutting out not only the nurse but everyone else in the hospital, and helps Stan dress, despite Stan's protests. He fusses over him like an old Jewish mother, tutting and worrying. There's something painfully nostalgic about that. It reminds Stan of when he was very young and Sheila used to babysit him sometimes, only between getting off the bus and his mother coming home from work. A couple hours at most but she would always make a big deal of making sure his pants were dry from the snow and that he was well-fed.

“Butters, I'm fine,” Stan insists, trying to turn away from him. But Butters is taller than him and easily reaches around him to pull the sleeve over Stan's cast. Stan has no idea how he is better at dressing him than he himself is. “They wouldn't let me go if they didn't think I was okay.”

“I saw your medical charts, Stan, don't tell me you're fine,” Butters says sternly, channeling as much Sheila Broflovski as a 34-year-old male veterinarian's receptionist can. “A broken arm isn't 'fine.' Internal bleeding isn't 'fine.' Just let me take care of you.”

It isn't like he still has internal bleeding. They took care of that over a week ago. How many stitches had that taken, to sew up his small intestine? How easily could he have died? He's thankful for small mercies. Those men, his former friends and neighbors, they didn't have to bring him back. They didn't have to save him. They could have left him to die. For some reason they had shown him that small amount of pity and he thinks maybe they also remembered when he had been their friend and neighbor. Maybe the older men remember him as Randy's son. Maybe the younger ones remember him as their high school football star. He is a South Park native and he believes that is what saved him. If he had been an outsider he would probably still be out there in the woods, roaming through the trees with Pip for eternity.

Instead, he's here being fussed over by a positively maternal Butters.  
The truth is, if Stan had his way he would have already left on his own. He can walk, for the most part, he could call a damn taxi, but the hospital specified that he wasn't allowed to leave the hospital without a “chaperon.” Like he's some kid on a field trip to the natural history museum. So as usual here he is relying on the kindness of Butters, feeding off the poor man like a leach.

They force him to ride in a wheelchair all the way to the car, claiming it's hospital policy. The wheelchair reminds him of his grandfather and once again he feels thankful for what he still has. They could have done much worse. They could have left him in something similar to this chair for life.

The bruises and still-healing scabs on the back of his thighs sting as he sits down and once more as he stands back up; the wheelchair is more of an inconvenience than anything but he doesn't argue. It's only for a few minutes and he is just ready to get out of this damn building. 

Butters pushes him along the corridors and Stan continues to dwell over the memories of his grandfather. In his later days he had usually been accompanied by a pretty young nurse with a similar shade of blond hair. Grandpa Marsh would sometimes hit on her and she had slapped him once for touching her behind. By then the old man had been far too lost to dementia for such an action to be grounds for any sort of lawsuits. She had even apologized to the old man, claiming it had been a gut reaction and she had never wanted to hurt him.

Still, the encounter is something Stan has never forgotten. Maybe men are just like that. Sexual predators at their basic core. Maybe once they forget the artificial barriers of society and morals that is just how men are. It leaves him terrified of growing old. What could he attempt if he lost his ability to comprehend those things? Infinitely worse than pinching the bottom of a thirty-year-old RN.

Butters parks Stan out in front of the hospital for a minute and runs off to get his car. He pulls it up to the curb directly before the doors then jumps out once more to open the door for him. When Stan hobbles from vehicle to vehicle he is careful to lift his leg slowly to avoid banging it against the door as he climbs into the automobile.

Sitting forlornly in the passenger seat of his old car, Stan's quiet on the ride back, planning the words in his head as Butters yammers on. The roads have already been plowed, probably sometime in the early morning hours before the sun rose, and the drive is smooth enough. Stan leans his forehead on the glass and watches as steep cliffs turn into flat forest and then into residential streets. The snow piled out front of the businesses is gray and slushy. 

He had always thought, even as a small boy, that it had been foolish to build a hospital this far away from town. How are people supposed to get there for an emergency when it's perched on the side of a snowy cliff? But maybe sending the sick to recover in a pristine, natural environment has its upside. His grandfather had mentioned once that the hospital had originally been built as a sanatorium to house tuberculosis patients. Wasn't that the go-to cure back then? Send them somewhere with clean, fresh air?

“So I was thinking, it'll be summer before you know it," Butters continues talking in the same long stream of consciousness he had begun as soon as he had started up the car. "And I've never been to the state fair. Have you ever been to the state fair, Stan? They have some real good old bands playing. What do you think about going for a weekend? It's about a two and a half-hour drive so maybe we could get a hotel room and just live it up. What do you think?”

“I don't think I should be going to any fairs,” Stan sighs, still turned away from Butters. He spots a deer in the distance but it's far off into a field, far away from where they would have any chance of accidentally hitting it. “There's a lot of kids at those places, you know?”

“Nobody will know you there, Stan,” Butters says, his mood dropping. Stan feels a hand on his knee. “It's a big place. It isn't like South Park. Actually, I, I was thinking I needed to talk to you.”

“I need to talk to you, too,” Stan admits. He's pretty sure their two planned conversations are about to diverge greatly in subject matter. The other man's topic would probably be more pleasant but Stan's is more practical. “When we get to my place.”

“That's the thing,” Butters says. He's still driving but Stan can tell, even though he's still staring out the window, that Butters is looking at him. Probably shooting fleeting, worried glances in his direction. “I think maybe it would be for the best if you don't stay there no more. I want you to come back to my condo. We can pick up what you need for the night and then head back to my place. What if they come back for you?”

“If they wanted to kill me they wouldn't have dumped me off in front of the hospital,” Stan reminds him. Not that Butters know who "they" are. They might have shown Stan some mercy that night but he knows it is condition. He knows if he rats them out he is as good as dead; they won't let him survive a second time.

“If it isn't them it might be somebody else, somebody who won't drop you off,” Butters replies, voice quiet with worry. Stan finally turns to look at him. The blond's hands are on the steering wheel so he can't rub his knuckles together but he's rubbing the pads of his thumbs on the wheel as if he desperately needs to channel his emotions in some physical manner. “I think you should move back in with me. Like, permanently.”

“Butters-”

“No, listen to me,” Butters cuts in quickly, before Stan has time to argue. Stan is somewhat surprised to hear the determination and authority in the voice of a man who is usually so timid and easily manipulated. “I've already started applying to some places in Denver. Once I get hired at another job we can move together. You can have a fresh start, where people don't know. It'll be good for both of us.”

“Butters, are you in love with me?”

“What?” Butters stutters. The car swerves to the right, bumping as it glides over some lumpy snow on the side of the road. He catches himself, pulling back towards the center, but lets off the gas some, slowing the car. His wide blue eyes resemble those of a frightened baby deer when he looks at Stan. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because you just asked me to move away with you?” Stan asks, but it's less of a question than a statement. “Because I can't remember the last time you told me about one of your dates?”

“I, I don't really go on dates anymore,” Butters replies. Stan looks towards him finally and sees the flush on Butters' pale throat.

“Because nobody wants to date somebody who's friend with the local pedophile,” Stan spits out.

The car takes a turn and they're finally on the road that Stan calls home. His trailer is not visible in its protective wall of trees quite yet. Butters stammers a series of incomprehensible words.

“I love you,” he gets out finally, “I do love you Stan. But, but not like that. You're my best friend. I know Kyle will always be your best friend but I consider you mine.”

That's not how best friends work. You can't have only one best friend in a pair, it needs to be mutual. Having a best friend that doesn't consider you their best friend in response is like having a boyfriend who doesn't consider you his boyfriend. It doesn't work that way.

Butters parks the car in front of Stan's trailer. Stan opens the door and pulls himself out before Butters can get around to the other side of the car. Stan shakes him off when he tries to help him to the door, an arm going around his waist.

“Butters, I like you, I really do,” Stan says with a sigh. His plans for this are already thrown out the window, probably somewhere off one of the cliffs by the hospital. “But I don't want to see you anymore. I don't want to hear from you at all.”

“What? Stan, no.” Butters reaches for him again. Stan stumbles back, almost tripping over a log hidden beneath a pile of snow. He knows the log is there, underneath, but he hadn't realized it was so close to the walkway.

“You gave up your whole social life for me,” Stan says, trying to hold back the tears that want to spill forth. He has to be strong. “You have been bullied relentlessly. They've spray painted your car and egged your house and attacked you online. Nobody will date you. And, and what if they attacked you? If they did to you what they did to me? I couldn't live with myself. I'm ending our friendship.”

“Stan,” Butters mutters, helplessly. His mouth hangs open, his eyes already watering. “You don't have to do this.”

“I don't,” Stan agrees. He walks past Butters, stopping once more on the steps to his trailer. He turns to him one last time. “I could be selfish and keep you to myself. I could take you away from all your other friends and lock you up in my own personal hell to keep me company. But that's not fair to you. Thank you for everything you've done for me, it means so, so much. Please take good care of Cougar and just, just go enjoy your life, okay? I'm going to start spreading the rumor that you stopped talking to me because you realized you couldn't stand me. If you try to talk to me again I'll tell people the reason we were still friends was because you're like me. And I really, really don't want to do that. I may be a monster but that doesn't mean you need to be one too.”  
  


  
March 9, 2019

  
Getting used to the absence of fresh vegetables is going to take some getting used to. It'll be okay come summer; Stan can plant some seeds in the spring and be harvesting fresh tomatoes and cucumbers by July, if he's lucky. Even in the spring there might be a good supply of dandelion greens around the trailer, again if he's lucky. But for now he has to make do with what he can get.

And what he can get, mostly, is canned goods. And he should feel blessed that the convenience store does offer a small selection of frozen produce like berries and peas. Frozen is doable. You can't make a salad out of frozen goods but you can make a smoothie.

It's not that Stan is trying to live off the grid or anything as extreme as that. But he can't go to the grocery store, he just can't, and ordering delivery is too expensive now. With over thirty thousand dollars owed in hospital bills, Stan won't be eating any organic mushrooms any time soon. Not when the convenience store offers the canned variety at a fraction of the cost. He loads up on whatever vegetables he can find, planning meals out in his head. Minestrone soup, vegetarian chili, fried rice, spaghetti. He thinks about buying lima beans but one can of lima beans is a dollar and you can get two of kidney for that price.

He needs to scrimp and save. He needs to pay his bills but he also needs to transfer a moderate amount of funds into his savings account every week because Butters was right about one thing: he needs to get out of South Park. It won't be as soon as Stan would like, he feels terrified every night when he steps out of the office's sliding doors and starts walking home, but he needs to work if he is to have any chance of salvaging some scrap of a life in the future.

Besides the rather unappealing quality of canned produce, there is the issue of weight. The fifteen-minute walk had never seemed particularly troublesome before, not when Stan had only had the burden of a six-pack to contend with, but back then he had also not been hampered by a broken arm or a still-healing leg. The first trip for groceries, it didn't occur to him until he was walking back to his trailer that he could have used his backpack. His hiking pack, the one he uses for camping, could have fit a decent load of groceries, if he had thought ahead of time. And it's easier to bear the weight on your back than your shoulder.

Next time. Today, Stan has to contend with the tote bag he had picked up at some organic grocery back in college. He's had the tote bag for years, it's brown canvas with some cartoony dancing produce printed on both sides, and has stood the test of time better than any relationships in his life. The bag holds more groceries than a normal plastic bag and is much sturdier. The last thing Stan needs is to be down on his knees on the side of the road retrieving cans of tomato sauce before they roll down the hill.

It's a struggle though. The bag hangs heavy on his left side, under his good arm. Normally he has the option of switching arms at will, of transferring the burden back and forth as each shoulder began to ache, but today he doesn't have that option. He can't risk exacerbating his already injured arm by banging a bunch of unresisting cans against the cast.

At least the liquor store is closer. And he doesn't have to carry beer and groceries on the same trip. There's already a six-pack of Pacifico waiting for him in his fridge.

So distracted is Stan by the persistent ache shooting down his left side, he doesn't notice the children until he is nearly on top of them. Maybe if he had he would have done something about it. At least he could have crossed the street, putting some distance between himself and them but he didn't expect to see them out there. Why are they playing in the middle of a field anyway? They have a front yard, Stan knows that; he has seen it, been there, stood in it many times over the years.

But no, they're just playing in a patch of new snow off the road instead. 

And there are three of them.

Rocky, Starla, and Liam.

They're making a snowman. Starla is in charge, from the look of it, pointing at something in the distance and telling her brothers she needs whatever it may be for their frozen companion. Rocky is arguing with her, he always argues with her, and Liam is quietly patting some snow onto the snowman's waist, filling out his rather voluptuous figure. He's facing Stan, situated behind the snowman and towards the road, but his head is down, hands busy with concentration. He doesn't notice Stan immediately, none of the children do. Stan can't help but notice the artistic tilt of Liam's jaw from this angle as he works silently at his job.

Then Rocky suddenly spots him. 

“Liam! It's that guy the cops told us to stay away from!”

Liam looks up, turning his head towards Stan's direction. His nose is pink from the cold and some of his blond hair is covering his eyes. It looks feathery and ruffles in the wind. Static, from the hat, most likely. He says something to his younger siblings and they get back to work on the snowman. Liam does not. He trudges his way through the snow in his boots and jeans and why the hell aren't any of them wearing snow pants in this weather? Stan knows how poor Kenny's family is but a pair of used snow pants isn't that expensive, at least the two younger kids should be wearing them. They're going to soak through their jeans and catch a cold, kneeling in the snow that must be up to Stan's own knees.

He knows it must be at least that high because Liam is having difficulty crossing the fifteen feet or so of field to make it to Stan. He's calling after Stan, for some reason, asking him to wait. Stan uses this obstacle to increase his own distance between himself and the boy, crossing in front of the children and hurrying on his way towards home at an increasing pace. Even with a broken arm and weighed down by groceries he can outrun the small boy as he bounds through the high snow.

That is, until the strap of his tote bag suddenly snaps and half his groceries smack against the pavement.

The bag isn't broken. Not completely. Only one strap has split in two. But the force of half the bag suddenly plummeting to one side has thrown a good handful of cans to the ground. Which means that Stan has to stop to pick up said cans, of course. With only one hand. He stoops down into a crouching position, his sore knee screaming beneath him. It doesn't like this position. No choice but to ignore it. He only has managed to grab three cans before a pair of mittened hands are grabbing at the cans as well, carefully placing the objects back into the bag.

Stan looks up and sees hesitant, gentle eyes close to him. He's so close that Stan could reach out and touch his charmingly flushed looking face with little effort. Lean forward closer and he could kiss those little Cupid lips.

“Liam,” Stan says warily.

“Hi Mr. Marsh,” Liam greets him, his voice as soft and high-pitched as ever. Still the voice of the boy Stan has known since birth. It's always been smooth and gentle, lacking the raspy quality Caleb had begun to develop in his double-digits. Stan imagines that if Liam had the means and confidence to put his efforts into joining the church choir he would stand out as a beautiful soprano. But he could never imagine Liam singing in public, not unless something about his personality has changed drastically over the last year.

“You know you shouldn't come near me,” Stan tells him. He tosses the last can into the bag and pulls at the remains of the straps, righting it. But he doesn't stand yet. He knows the action of standing is going to hurt his knee further and he needs a moment to ready himself against the pain.  
Liam does stand up, however, with all the loose-limbed exuberance of a pre-teen boy. He stands taller than Stan like this, though not by much. He's still as petite and waif-like as ever, even with his puffy winter jacket and rubber boots. His throat is bare, pale and vulnerable against the cold. He should be wearing a scarf.

“I know,” Liam replies guiltily. “But Mr. Broflovski told me and Caleb what happened to you. I, I wanted to know if you were okay.”

“I'm fine,” Stan sighs, feeling pathetic that a kid two decades younger than himself is apparently pitying him. “It's nothing I didn't deserve. Nothing permanent.”

“Do you need help up?” Liam asks, already extending a mittened hand in Stan's direction. He looks at the offered hand, hesitating. He knows he shouldn't be talking to Liam and he definitely shouldn't be touching him, but just standing is such a painful experience from this angle. He grabs Liam's hand, it's cold and wet from snow, and allows the boy to help pull him to his feet. As small as he is, the boy has to dig his feet into the road to ground himself so at to keep from toppling over.

“Thank you, Liam,” Stan says to the boy. “Go play with your brother and sister.”

“I'm watching them, not playing with them,” Liam says, no longer looking at Stan. His eyes are turned down to the ground and the overcast sky has cast a dull glow over them. The bright blue eyes from last summer appear as gray and morose as a drudging winter day. “Is your arm broken?”

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Stan says, startled that the boy has noticed. The cast is hidden within his jacket, out of sight of prying young eyes. He isn't wearing it in a sling or anything. “How can you tell?”

“You aren't using it,” Liam replies with a shrug. “I just noticed, is all. I can carry your bag for you if you want?” He's already reaching for the bag still lying on the ground, growing damp in the snow.

“No,” Stan objects quickly. He grabs at the straps, winding them around his palm. "Thank you for checking up on me Liam but really, you shouldn't be talking to me. You know why the adults are telling you to stay away from me, don't you? What would your parents say if they caught you?”

He shrugs, mouth turned down at the corners. In the distance, Stan can see Starla and Rocky staring at them with wide eyes. They notice him glancing at them and hide behind the snowman. He can hear them whispering excitedly.

“They can't catch me talking to you,” Liam states morosely, speaking of not his siblings but his parents. “Both of them are in jail.”

Oh. Of course they are. Stan should have known that. Why else would Liam be watching his siblings this far away from the house unless somebody had specifically told him to take them and get them somewhere out of their sight? Neither Starla or Rocky are that young anymore but they can be loud and troublesome, running around the house, screaming and fighting. Not the best atmosphere for an old man trying to nap on the couch.

“Your grandparents watching over you?” Stan guesses.

“Grandpa is,” Liam confirms, nudging at the snow directly at the roadside. He's digging at it with the toe of his shoe, revealing the mealy looking dirt beneath it. No sign of old grass, just sandy-looking soil dotted with gravel. “Grandma comes over and cooks for us after work but she doesn't stay all night.”

No, she never has. Whenever the McCormicks have watched over their grandchildren it has usually been Stuart stuck with the full-time duty since he has rarely held a consistent job in the last twenty years. Like Stan himself, Kenny's parents live in a small trailer on a side street outside of South Park, their old house having been condemned years ago. The trailer isn't nearly large enough for six children to bunk down for a night but Stan is glad they're able to stay at home even if the trailer had been an option. With the turbulence of so many other aspects of their lives in constant turmoil he's sure it's good for them to at least have a steady place to call a home.

“Be careful, keep an eye on Rocky,” Stan warns him. “And don't talk to strange men on the side of the road. Go build your snowman.”

“Alright. You be careful too, Mr. Marsh.”

  
  
  
March 20, 2019

  
It's been nearly a month since the last knock on Stan's door. He considers that a success. There's a sense of pride associated with knowing he has managed to successfully scare off Butters for good. As much as he misses him, as much as he misses any form of human contact, this was one action that he could be proud of. He had cut Butters loose. It was like freeing a poor, helpless animal from a cage.

When Stan was eleven years old he had once set such an animal free. Not that he received much thanks from the creature for his actions. The skunk had been in one of his Uncle Jimbo's traps, pacing back and forth in the tiny cage, just waiting for its fate. Eleven-year-old Stan Marsh hadn't been sure exactly what Uncle Jimbo did with skunks but he had known whatever it was wasn't nice. So the skunk had lucked out when it had been Stan and Kyle who had stumbled upon the cage in the woods and not Jimbo and Ned.

Kyle, never possessing the soft heart towards animals that Stan carries within himself, had told Stan to leave it alone. 'You'll get sprayed, Stan. It might even attack you once it's out. What if it has rabies?'

It hadn't bitten Stan but Kyle had been right about getting sprayed. How many gallons of canned tomatoes had been sacrificed to the Marsh family bathtub after that incident?

But the stench had been worth it at the time, to give an innocent creature another chance at life. Just as Stan's loneliness is now worth it to give Butters his.

So when the knock comes on Stan's door, despite the yearning for company, for a hug and a handful of kind words, Stan is ready to lay into his old friend. If he has to be cruel to give Butters a happy life then so be it.

Of course, he realizes there is a slight chance it may be somebody besides Butters. But it's broad daylight so the chances of it being another gang of men ready to assault him is slim. And who else would want to visit the pervy Marsh guy at his house?

“Mom,” Stan breathes, his chest tightening in shock at the sight of Sharon Marsh in his doorway. She's wearing the same olive peacoat she has worn for years, her hairstyle unchanged for at least a decade, yet somehow she looks different. Older, maybe, the lines in her face deeper, the gray at her temples more visible. She seems to have aged ten years in less than ten months. Did Stan do that to his own mother?

“Stanley,” she greets stiffly. She's holding a cardboard box in her arms. He goes to help her with it, all the instinct inside himself screaming at himself to unburden his feeble, semi-elderly mother, but she yanks back at the same time he remembers his arm.

“Sorry,” he winces, stepping out of the way. “Come in, please. It's good to see you, Mom.”

She ignores his comment entirely. Instead, she passes by him, finding the kitchen table, and deposits the box in the middle of it. She turns to Stan, wiping her hands on her jacket.

“I'm sure you're aware of your Uncle Jimbo's passing.”

No. No, he was not aware of that. Stan feels a shiver down his spine. Guilt. South Park isn't a large town, news like the passing of somebody as recognizable as his uncle shouldn't have been something he missed.

“We had the reading of the Will this past weekend. Despite our efforts to overrule parts of it, our lawyer has advised us we had no choice but to obey the document. I'm sure your uncle would have gotten around to updating the Will if his death hadn't been so sudden.”

“Mom-”

“Don't call me that,” she bites out, dropping all pretense of cold politeness. “You forgoed all rights to a mother the day you touched Caleb Broflovski. I'm here because nobody else wanted to be near you, that is all.”

Stan takes a step back in shock. It's not like he was unaware of his mother's disdain for him but she has never spoken towards him with such acid in her voice. Even on the phone last summer, when she told him she didn't want to speak to him ever again, she had kept her voice calm and emotionless. As disconcerting as that had been at the time it didn't hit Stan like a glass of ice water to the face like this confrontation.

She turns away from him and opens the box, rummaging through it. It sounds like it's only half full as there isn't a lot of digging or banging inside. She takes out an envelope and sets it on the table, muttering to herself.

“That's a copy of the Will, “ she said. Then she turns around holding a wooden box. Stan recognizes it immediately, it's where Uncle Jimbo kept his military decorations. He used to show Stan the medals and ribbons back when he was a kid and thought his uncle was a hero like Arnold Schwarzenegger because he had fought in wars and owned a bunch of guns.

“Everything is in the box besides the guns he left,” she tells Stan, still holding the box to her body, lid pressed closed. “You need to register the guns in your name so they're at the police station for now. I think you need a background check. I don't care about the bonds, really. I doubt Jimbo would have wanted you to have them now but I can't do anything about that, they're in your name. But I don't want to give you these medals. You don't deserve them.”

“I don't,” Stan agrees, resigned. His voice sounds flat and dead to even his own ears.

“But the lawyers, the lawyers say because Jimbo left them to you I have to give them to you. I have to give away the medals of a national hero to a disgusting sex offender.”

“I don't have to take them, though,” Stan tells her. “I'm not required to take them. You keep them, Mom. I want you to have them.”

She sets her mouth in a thin line and nods. She doesn't thank him. She just turns and tucks the box into her oversize purse.

“I brought you these,” she adds after a moment, taking another envelope out of the purse. “I wasn't sure if I would give them to you or not. I doubt your sister wants me to and I'm frightened to think of what you might do looking at your own nephews but, well, here.”

Stan takes the envelope from her. It's a large manila envelope, the type you hand over official documents in. He pries open the metal tabs on the back and pulls out a handful of glossy-print photographs. Shelley, the new husband, and the kids, all dressed up in matching red and white sweaters. Stan smiles at the sight of his nieces and nephews, despite the melancholy that settles in his stomach at the reminder of last year's lonely Christmas.

He looks up before his mother suspects the worse. Of course he has no attraction to his nephews, he isn't attracted to his own flesh and blood, but he isn't going to say that aloud. Even acknowledging those attractions in front of his mother feels wrong.

“I wish you would just leave town,” she tells him. “It's a disgrace to us all, having you around.”

“I'm trying,” Stan says. “I'm tight on money right now, but I'm trying. I'm sorry. Tell Dad I'm sorry, too.”

“Words don't mean much coming from a child molester, Stan. I should've aborted you like your father wanted. He never wanted you, I was the one who decided you should be allowed to live. I loved you from the moment I knew you existed. I never thought anything could make me stop loving you. But I guess no mother expects her son to grow up to be a monster.”

"No, I guess they don't," Stan agrees.  
  


  
March 31, 2019

  
Deep inside, Stan is a purist. He went through the teen wave shit when he was young but in his teenage years he had gone through a classic rock stage that eventually developed into an appreciation for alternative and indie music. What all those genres have in common is their philosophy of sticking to an organic quality of music. All a garage band needs is a few instruments – maybe a guitar, a bass, and a drum set – and some dedicated members to play them. Well, and some amps, maybe some pedals.

The point is, Stan likes music that can be created with his hands. There was a time when the ability to create without the help of a computer was considered a valuable skill. As a kid he had liked working with his hands. When he and his friends had played superheroes for awhile around fourth grade he had even created his persona based on this fact with a Tim-The-Toolmaneqsue hero who covered himself in hammers and screwdrivers and referred to himself as Toolshed. There is something wholly satisfying about the tangibility of creating something with your hands.

This preference transferred to music in his early teens. It isn't that Stan hadn't shown an interest in music before that; he learned to play guitar with his father in elementary school. But before hitting adolescence he had enjoyed making music with keyboards and playing Guitar Hero just as much as strumming a guitar. Now, well. Guitar Hero is still fun and all, but it's not the same experience as holding a real instrument in your hands. You can't smack the back of a Guitar Hero controller between chords to give a song an extra oomph. You can't change the sound of a note by compressing the whammy bar. And, while Stan does enjoy the sound of a piano, his own keyboard stuck in the back of the closet doesn't hold the same majesty as that of a grand piano accompanying an orchestra.

Stan can't play guitar right now. This is something he has to accept, despite his reluctance to put away his Fender that is still resting on one of his kitchen chairs. What he can do is write music. It isn't as enjoyable as working through a song on one of his guitars but he downloaded an app that attempts to duplicate the sound of several instruments several weeks ago, figuring he could eventually try playing them once his arm is back in working order.

The thing about making music is that it makes Stan feel productive. Yes, he could just sit around the trailer, watching shit on YouTube or playing video games. And yes, he does do plenty of that on his days off. But there has to be more to life than work and television. Surely, there has to be more to life than that.

Maybe once the snow melts Stan will explore the area nearby for some hiking trails. Without a car, he can't get to the good ones, like the mountain he took Caleb to last year, but South Park is located in a nice enough area. If he has to bike a couple miles to a part of a longer path it wouldn't be the worst thing ever. Who knows, maybe there might be a waterfall within a doable distance of his home.

But until winter ends Stan is stuck indoors. Alone. With only his laptop and a handful of music apps.

He started by mixing the song he had shown Butters before the attack. He still had the basic instrumental saved on his computer and he had rerecorded the vocals several times and then tried adding some other instruments – a bass, some drums, some horns, a violin. Not at the same time but in various remixes. One version had sounded pop, another electronic, another classical. Interesting, but besides a better quality on the audio section, he still prefers the original composition best. The drums and bass and piano just don't sound authentic enough. Stan cannot listen to any mixes of the song with the fake instruments added and imagine in any way, shape, or form that a solid object had been used to make any of those noises. The song might sound better with a few more added but not this way.

Since the less than astounding results with the mixes, he has concentrated on just writing for now. It's not that he plans on using any of the sounds he has recorded as a final version, he'll rerecord everything with his guitar in three or four months, but if all he can do is write the music then that's what he'll do.

Except it isn't nearly as enjoyable as he had hoped. After a couple weeks of fiddling with buttons and tabs Stan has found the experience little more than an ongoing annoyance. Nevertheless, he persists. If he didn't have something to keep himself busy he would go insane.

Today isn't working though. Today is one of those days where the artificial lilt of a fake guitar sets his teeth on edge. What could take that edge off? Well what else can he do with one hand? Even video games are a chore.

He can barely stand to look at Caleb anymore. Even the picture hanging in his living room seems to follow him with all-seeing eyes, like one of those holographic paintings the boy had loved when they had gone on the Haunted Mansion ride together on their Disneyland trip. He can barely stand to look at that picture but he cannot stand the thought of taking it down either. That would feel like turning his back on his godson and like it or not, he's still Caleb's godfather. It was an oath he had taken for life.

But he can definitely not look at Caleb when he masturbates.

So he takes the laptop into the bedroom, away from Caleb's ever-watching gaze, and he props the laptop up onto a couple of pillows. Everything was easier with two hands and he's still clumsy doing this with his left. Masturbating with the left hand just feels awkward. It feels like somebody else is touching him. Somebody with large, rough hands.  
When he closes his eyes he tries to imagine the hands are much smaller and smoother.

When he opens them again he tries not to look at himself. He doesn't want to see his growing beer belly and his large, hairy thighs. He doesn't want to think of the ravishes of time.

He clicks through pictures of the boys he has saved on his hard drive. Cute boys. Some nine, some thirteen. Some blond, some brunette, some raven-haired, white skin beauties. Some laugh, some bite their lip, some have eyes that sparkle with joy. Some show flashes of soft belly or bony shoulder blades. Some are adorable in oversized hoodies with the tips of their fingers showing. Some are shirtless, wet and goosebumped from a shocking swim.

They're all celebrities because, somehow, in his fucked up excuse for a mind, it's okay to masturbate to pictures of famous boys. Those pictures are made to be looked at, surely the photographers knew what some people would do with those pictures? These boys are not victims of trafficking nor were they unsuspecting preadolescents, unwitting targets of peeping Toms. They are movie stars. Television stars. Musicians.

He doesn't stop to think about what the boys would think, if they knew. The idea doesn't even cross his mind. 

When the pictures aren't enough he goes to YouTube. He watches videos of them singing, dancing, jumping, playing, kneeling, crying. He smiles at their carefree endeavors. He watches the movement of their hips and focuses on the tightness in their thighs. He holds his breath at the perceived flash of underdeveloped bulges. He replays the videos of their fake crying as he closes his eyes once more. He imagines them sounding like that as he's inside of them. Not crying in pain but with pleasure. Crying as they beg for more. Crying because it feels too good and they've never known something could feel that good and crying because they don't know what an orgasm feels like and they're scared by their own bodies.

That's okay, Stan is scared of their bodies too.  


  
  
April 10, 2019

  
“You trying to get rid of a body?” the familiar voice comes from behind Stan's back.

“Just digging my own grave,” Stan calls back, not turning to greet his visitor. He doesn't particularly want to talk to this specific individual despite the fact he may be one of the few people in South Park who hasn't threatened to personally castrate him in the last year.

In fact, this man, with his white-gray hair and mouth only half-filled with yellow-brown teeth, has taken a rather “live and let live” approach to Stan very similar to that Kenny had also taken before being locked away for another four-month stint in prison. Some people live in a morally gray area, Stan supposes he has his own little nest well settled in this area, and maybe being raised in such an area just spreads it. How can Kenny beat his wife but love her? How can Stan fantasize about having his lips around a boy's hard little cock and still sleep at night?

Maybe neither is possible.

Either way, Stan is sure that part of Kenny's loose approach to life, a large part, in fact, is owed to this man.

Stan straightens his back as he leans back on his heels, a series of cracks and pops traveling down his vertebrae. He turns, leaning on the hoe as he greets the man.

“Mr. McCormick,” he drawls. “What brings you here?”

“Brought you a present, actually,” Stuart McCormick grins with his barely-present teeth. He holds up a six-pack of Miller Lite in an old, wrinkled hand. God, he looks so old. Stan's own father looks a good twenty years younger than this man and they went to school together. The drinking, probably, or the meth. He wonders if Kenny will look this old in twenty years. Will Stan? His own skin is already starting to feel thin from chronic alcoholism. He cut open the back of his hand the other day, snagging it on a nail under the sink, and it had ripped like a piece of crepe paper. The pliancy of the tissue all but drained in such a bony area.

“What's the occasion?” Stan asks, skeptical of the beer. What did the older man do with it? Spike it with roofies? Inject it with HIV? Maybe just filter in some fine shards of glass to rip him open from the inside?

“The new Broflovski kid was just born,” Stuart laughs. Stan isn't sure if it is supposed to be mocking or if it just sounds that way to his own ears. “I thought you would want to celebrate.”

“He can't be here yet,” Stan protests, disbelieving. Isn't Heidi only six or even months along? It's much too early for that child to be here already. “Do you mean Ike? Did Ike have a kid?”

“Nah, just saw pictures of him today. Bright red hair. Wanna see?”

God, does Stan want to see a third Broflovski boy? And one with red hair?

He would willingly sell his soul for a glimpse of the kid.

He invites Stuart inside the trailer, leaving the hoe leaning against the porch out front. They're in the middle of a thaw right now but Stan doesn't see it staying. It's only mid-April. He removes his own boots by the door but Stuart leaves muddy footprints all the way to the table. Stuart rips two beers out of their plastic rings and is even considerate enough to open Stan's for him. Stan doesn't need the help, he's gotten used to holding the cans against his chest with his cast and popping the top with his left hand, but it's appreciated nonetheless.

“What are you doing hoeing at this time of the year anyway?” Stuart asks, scanning through his phone. Stan catches a glimpse of the familiar blue and white scheme of the Facebook app. “Can't plant nothing in April. Seeds'll just freeze.”

“It's not an easy job with one hand,” Stan replies dryly. “Figured should get a start on it. That whole area out there is full of rocks and weeds. It'll take me a damn month just to get the land sowable.”

“You do look pretty damn pathetic out there,” Stuart chuckles. “Here we go. Don't click on anything.”

Stan takes the phone from Stuart. His fingers are wet from the beer can and the screen picks up on the moisture, accidentally flipping to the next picture in the album. A glance near the top shows this isn't from Kyle or Heidi's Facebook but Sheila's. The McCormicks and the Broflovskis have never been the closest families but it makes sense they'd follow each other on Facebook. Kenny had been one of the groomsmen at Kyle's wedding, Kyle had been the best man at Kenny's. Stan had been Kyle's best man. Stan wonders if Kyle regrets that now. Has he been cut out of the wedding pictures like a despised ex-lover?

To be fair, he is also Kyle's ex-lover. If you consider whatever they had in their early teens a relationship.

Stan had expected to see a picture of Heidi holding the baby, probably sitting up in a hospital bed looking exhausted but pleased with herself. She always did like being a new mother, craving the attention that comes with possessing a newborn infant.

Instead, the photo shows the shine of fluorescent lights against clear plastic and the outline of two holes made for human arms to go through. The baby inside looks tiny, doll-like, his skin as angry a shade of red as his hair.

“They have him in an incubator?” Stan asks, worry etching onto his features. He will never get to hold this baby, he will never be Uncle Stan to him, but he already adores the child. He's Caleb's little brother and he looks very much like Caleb had as birth, except for the smaller bodily proportions and more copious amounts of hair.

“Kid was born seven weeks early,” Stuart says, holding his beer to his lips. He takes a large swallow followed by that same annoying “ah” sound that Kenny always makes when he drinks on a hot day. “Said he'll be okay though. They're just keeping him a couple weeks to make sure everything is okay. Think that mother nature would've put a little more effort into lungs and a little less into that much ugly ass hair. But I suppose mother nature also doesn't want a woman having a kid at that woman's age anyway.”

How old is Heidi? Thirty-three? Thirty-four? She isn't that old. Probably old enough that she should have known to be more careful though. Stan wonders what happened to trigger such an early birth. He scrolls through more pictures. The top of the gallery is labeled “Zachary Broflovski.” Baby Broflovski Boy #3 has a name. Zachary. Will he be Zack for short? When Caleb had been born Kenny had started a petition to call him Cal for short which had amassed only four signatures – three of which had been Kenny, Princess Kenny, and Mysterion.

“His feet are so tiny,” Stan finds a stupid smile blossoming on his face. Foolishly, he counts the toes, making sure all ten are there. His foot must be as tiny as Stan's thumb. Maybe even smaller.

“Please don't start beating one out in front of me,” Stuart pleads. The words send a wave of bile up Stan's throat that he forces himself to swallow back down. Like he would ever have those sort of feelings towards such a tiny, pink little creature. “I can text them to you, if you want to do that once I'm gone.”

“I don't have a phone anymore,” Stan tells him. And he doesn't. Not even a landline. Considering how little he leaves the house it had been most economical to just stick to a simple internet connection, calling through an online service and his headphones when absolutely needed. He hasn't had to make that many calls that way just yet.

“E-mail, then,” Stuart says jovially. Stan wonders if Stuart is actually thinking of him alone in this room, masturbating to pictures of a newborn. Possibly. “So you have any plans for Easter?”

“Easter?” Stan asks. Right, it's April. His father is probably getting ready for the annual Hare Club meeting. That also means it must nearly be Passover. He never understood the holiday but he had been invited and taken part in his fair share of Seders over the years. This will be Zachary's first Passover. He still remembers Caleb's. He had been nearly a year old at the time and had sat at the table wearing a “My First Passover” bib, hitting his rattle against his chair as Kyle recited something in Hebrew that Stan didn't understand. By the time Caleb was born Kyle was pretty fluent in the ancient language, having studied it in college.

Compare that to thirteen-year-old Kyle reading at his Bar Mitzvah. He had been so cute in his little suit, so thin and so expertly cut the legs almost looked like skinny jeans over his scrawny thighs. Stan had shoved him into the bathroom outside the hotel's banquet room and given him head with his entire family just outside the door, laughing and dancing and asking where Kyle had disappeared to.

Caleb must be taking lessons by now. Or he will be starting soon. He's nearly twelve. Almost a man in Jewish law, though Stan would never say a thirteen-year-old boy is a man in his own eyes. Thirteen is on Stan's upper limit, age-wise, but imagine if he could have an adult relationship with one. That would make things so much easier.

Better not to consider such things.

Would anybody notice if he snuck into the synagogue to see Caleb's reading? It's something he has been looking forward to since his birth.

“Well?”

“What?” Stan asks, realizing he has allowed himself to get lost in thought.

“Did they?”

“What?” Stan repeated, clearly having drifted even further than he realized.

“I asked if the cops banned you from the egg hunt,” Stuart asks, clearly starting to become annoyed by Stan's vacant-eyed stare. He reaches for the second beer, reminding Stan that he has barely touched his own. It tastes like horse piss but, well, it's free. Who is he to turn down a gift? He brings it to his lips.

“No, they can't ban me from doing anything,” Stan says. “I haven't done anything wrong. It's not like I'm on probation or something.”

“I imagine that will be like, a month-long subscription to Spice to you? Huh?" Spice? Who the fuck still watches the Spice channel? Stuar McCormick, apparently. "All those cute kids in their shorts, running around? Bending over with their little asses in the air as they look through the bushes for their eggs?”

“I'm not going,” Stan replies stiffly, and refusing to otherwise elaborate on Stuart's question.

“Kids are begging us to take them to it,” Stuart continues. He stands up and strolls deeper into the kitchen. Opens the fridge and looks through it. There isn't much in there right now. He closes it again and starts going through his cupboards instead. “Especially the little ones. You know we're still stuck with the whole lot of them? Their momma won't be out for another three weeks.”

“It's nice of you to keep an eye on them,” Stan says. He wonders where they are right now but doesn't ask. If he knows where they are, and something happens to them, who would they blame? Better to keep his distance entirely, even in a hypothetical way.

“State doesn't even give us any money for it,” Stuart complains. He picks up a can of potatoes and looks at it as if he's never seen such a thing in his life. Then he puts it back and grabs a bag of yellow tortilla chips with the numbers ninety-nine printed large and repeatedly on the bag. Ninety-nine cent chips. He returns to the table with the chips and pops them open.

“You would have to apply to be foster parents to receive payment, I think,” Stan considers. Stuart offers the bag to him and he grabs a handful of the chips. He is hungry from working in his soon-to-be vegetable garden. The chips are unsatisfying on his tongue. What he really wants is a cucumber. A nice, big, fresh one, maybe with a little salt and pepper on top.

“Like they'd let us foster any kids,” Stuart laughs. “Do you know the hoops they make you jump through for that? All those tests and home inspections. They made us go through that shit when they took away Kenny and the other two. Do you remember that? Told us we weren't good parents. Barely let us have our own damn kids back, let alone someone else's. You'd think they'd take anybody they could. All those kids stuck in the orphanages, my trailer is better than that. Kids would love to have their own room, I bet.”

Of course Stan remembers when Kenny was taken away. It hadn't been for long but he hadn't been that young at the time. How old had he been? Ten? Eleven? It had felt weird, going to school every day and not seeing Kenny waiting there to eat the leftover crusts from the toast Kyle's mom used to pack in his bag every morning. Cartman had missed him the most. Cartman had never had a best friend like Stan and Kyle. Kenny had probably been the closest thing to one but back then Kenny had been closer to Butters than Cartman even. They had drifted apart in high school, when Kenny had started doing more drugs and Butters had grown uncomfortable with the situation.

“At least Kenny's kids haven't been taken away,” he consoles. “Heidi will be back before you know it.”

“Yeah, and as soon as my son is out they'll get into another fight and be back in the slammer,” Stuart laughs through a mouthful of chips. “Carol doesn't work all that overtime just so Kenny's kids can have new shoes. How much did the Broflovskis pay you to babysit their brat?”

“Caleb?” Stan asks. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and glances at the picture of him quickly. Not quickly enough. Stuart notices the movement and turns to the side to look at the picture as well.

“That's him, right?” Stuart asks. “Can't say I get it. He's an ugly little ginger. You know who's cute as a button? Liam. Now I can't say I get wanting to stick my dick in a boy but if I did I'd want a pretty little one like Liam. Do you think Liam is cute?”

“That's, that's not really appropriate,” Stan stutters, scandalized by the question. Why would a man ask a known pedophile if his grandson was attractive or not?

“Of course he's cute,” Stuart answers the question. “Quiet kid, though. Not like the others. Barely says a word. Not even when he's hurt. Do you remember when he cut his hand open a couple years ago, playing in our backyard? And then he just sat there at the dinner table bleeding all over his lap until he passed out?”

No, Stan doesn't remember that. And he's glad, that is a horrifying story. Poor kid. Poor Liam. He doesn't deserve that kind of negligence. How badly does a kid have to be bleeding to faint? And nobody noticed? He tells Stuart that he doesn't remember the incident.

“Well, it's not like he would tell anybody about it,” Stuart reasons. “Told you, quiet kid. Good kid. Cute kid. Stan, I'm going to be open with you here. I can't take care of six kids. I barely managed to keep an eye on my own three when they were little and I was younger and more on top of things back then. I need help. I need a babysitter.”

“A babysitter?” Stan asks, wondering where this possibly could be going. He can't be implying what Stan thinks he is. That is ludicrous.

“Before all this shit went down, I heard Caleb telling Liam how much fun you two had together, when you watched him for that week the Broflovskis were out of town. I'm betting you're a great babysitter. How about it?”

“Are you crazy?” Stan asks, arching an eye. He gestures to their surroundings. “Look at where I live. Consider why I live here. What would people say?”

“Nobody needs to know,” Stuart reasons. “I could drop Liam off right after sunset, at, oh, eight or so? And pick him back up right before dawn? What would be a reasonable price? How about five hundred?”

“You want to pay me five hundred dollars to babysit Liam for ten hours?” Stan deadpans, absolutely confused by this entire proposition. Why would he ask Stan to babysit the least problematic of the children in the middle of the night when he would be asleep anyway?

“No,” Stuart shakes his head. Stan notices he's no longer digging for chips and his right handy, salty and covered in crumbs, is resting on his knee. He rubs his thumb against his middle finger, some sort of nervous tick. “I want you to pay me five hundred dollars to babysit him.”

Stan feels a cold horror creep up the back of his neck. Goosebumps spread across his arms. There's no question at all now what this means. This was all a pretense. Stuart doesn't give a shit about Zachary's birth, he only cares about one thing: money. And he thinks he's found a quick and easy way to get some. He is offering up Liam's virginity for half a thousand dollars.

Jumping to his feet, Stan storms to his front door and slams his door open.

“Get out. Now.”

“No need to be like that,” Stuart frowns, taking his time climbing to his feet. He stands as if the movement hurts him. “I was just trying to be neighborly.”

“He's your fucking grandson,” Stan gets out through gritted teeth. His jaw aches with the force. “Your own flesh and blood. I should report you to the cops.”

“But you won't because you know I'll just tell them you're the one who made the offer to me,” Stuart counters. “And that the only reason you reported me instead is to try to cover your own ass.”

“Yes,” Stan admits, because that is exactly right. Stan is already a well-known pedophile. As shitty as Stuart's reputation is in town he has never been accused of molesting a child. “And that's the only reason. Now get the fuck out of my house.”

**Chapter 10**

The snow has all but melted by the time Easter arrives. By the first week of May the kids are running around in shorts and the parents are packing away their heavy winter jackets. Both of these actions are welcome. A middle finger to the last of the snow that still holds on stubbornly to the memory of blizzards and negative degree temperature. The snow that is no longer friendly and carrying a nostalgia for better holidays gone past but only presents a deflated, depressing image of its former existence.

It lingers in shady patches in the forest, sheltered between roots and mossy rocks. It sticks together, obstinate, in the deepest, most ancient piles gathered by the snowplows. The kind of hills at the end of a dead-end street that aren't there in the summer but makes for excellent sledding in the winter, with the frequent thawing and freezing cementing layers of ice that melt as slowly as a bag inside a Yeti cooler. These half-melted mounds, brown and rough like a cola-flavored shaved ice cone, are the true indicator of the season. Despite the warm sun and the warbling of the birds overhead, winter is not well and truly over until the last of these mounds have melted and disappeared into the earth.

Stan sits behind his trailer, half in the shade of a tree, and admires his work on his garden. Another week, maybe two, and he can start planting. He already has the seeds ready in the house, ordered online and delivered smoothly to his rickety old mailbox out front. He's even already seeded some spinach and peas inside the house, using nothing but dirt he dug out of the ground and empty cans to house them. They're doing pretty well. He never thought he'd look at the tender looking sprouts of baby spinach and nearly drool in anticipation. But when the freshest produce you've had in over two months consists of frozen corn and peas...

His arm is still healing but it doesn't ache like it used to. Maybe it's a sign of the weather, like when his grandfather used to get aching joints before the rain. His knee is fine, for the most part, except for when he tries to crouch. His leg still doesn't like that position and after just a few seconds it begins to twinge with pain. The doctor had warned him it might be stiff for a while and had recommended some knee exercises that he doesn't remember how to do.

But, God, does it feel good to be outside. And only in a t-shirt and a pair of old running shorts? Stan has never been much of a shorts guy, his legs are too pale and too hairy for his liking, but there's something so freeing about letting your skin breathe on a warm spring day. Even the breeze ruffling the curly black hair of his calves is oddly alluring, despite the odd, tickling sensation this creates, like being covered in ants. 

His face and arms remain hidden beneath the shade of the oak tree that blocks the sun from his bedroom but his legs stretch out before him, boots muddy, soaking up the sun. He feels like a plant, photosynthesizing his own nutrition from the air and light.

Wouldn't that be nice, to be a plant? He would like to be a palm tree. Somewhere that is always warm and sunny; somewhere that people are happy to be around him. Maybe at the beach so he could listen to the waves washing ashore. Soap up the sounds of reggae music and the happy screeching of college kids playing volleyball. It would be nice, to be warm and friendly and loved because who doesn't love a palm tree? The very symbol of a tropical destination.

Maybe Stan should look into moving to Florida? Or California? Somewhere with palm trees, somewhere that he doesn't need to be trapped inside all day just because it's December or February. Isn't there a village somewhere in Florida, that is made out of only sex offenders? Would he qualify for that, or would he be an outcast even there?

There isn't much left to do in the garden. He has broken up all the clods, cut through all the roots. He's even fertilized the soil. But he likes looking at the dirt. There had been a time in his early twenties when he had briefly considered running off and joining some commune somewhere, working the soil and allowing each day to come as it may. But then Caleb had been born and, well, Stan was a godfather. He had responsibilities to a child; he couldn't just run off and spend his days massaging roots in a pair of old Birkenstocks.

Alright, he doesn't know if people actually massage roots like they're a pair of feet. But he does know music is supposed to be good for them. Once his arm is healed up he'll be out here playing his guitar, sending all the positive vibes he can to his new leafy companions. Until then, he has his radio.

Who even uses radios nowadays? When you can just connect your smartphone to a speaker and call it a day? The radio is a relic of Stan's teenage years. An old heavy black thing made out of a type of plastic that probably hasn't even been legal to produce in twenty years. He had bought it used as a Freshman in college from some kid who had been in the middle of dropping out and needed money for drugs. The CD player doesn't work anymore, probably something to do with the laser, but the tape deck is fine and he's not far enough out of town that he can't pick up a signal if wanted. He mostly sticks in old cassette tapes, the ones he used to keep in the dashboard of his car, back when he had a car. All the music is old, do they even release new albums on cassette? Besides the mixes he has random shit nobody has even thought about in years. Gin Blossom, Blessed Union of Souls, Vertical Horizon.

He's listening to Everclear when his visitor shuffles around the corner of the trailer.

_Hope my mom and I hope my dad_   
_Will figure out why they get so mad_   
_Hear them scream, I hear them fight_   
_Say bad words that make me want to cry_

Stan's eyes are closed, enjoying the cold beer in his hand and the sun creeping up his thighs, so he hears the approach rather than seeing it. The sound of newly turned soil crunching beneath worn sneakers. His eyes shoot open, his heart already in his throat. He's ready to run for it. His fight or flight instinct has been securely switched to flight for months now and he knows he will not survive another attack by a gang of South Park men. His heels dig into the ground  
.  
But this figure is not a man. He won't be for several years and right now he looks like nothing more than a frightened animal, all big eyes and drawn shoulders. If he could tighten his arms any tighter around his stomach he would be suffocating himself. But his arms are stick-like in their thinness, already showing hints of an early tan as they jut out from the oversize sleeves of a hand-me-down t-shirt.

“Liam,” Stan frowns. He tilts his eyes up, looking past the boy, for his grandparents or an older sibling or even Heidi. Is Heidi supposed to be out yet? He thinks she might be. He hasn't exactly been on friendly enough terms with Stuart to ask.

_I go to school and I run and play_   
_I tell the kids that it's all okay_   
_I like to laugh so my friends won't know_   
_When the bell rings I just don't want to go home_

“Hi, Mr. Marsh,” Liam says, his voice shaking. There's something off about how he's standing. At first it looks like he's swaying to some invisible song, his body moving like a fragile leaf in the wind. Both legs are firmly planted on the ground so it's not like he's switching from foot to foot. It's more like, like he's standing up by gravity and luck alone. Like a broom balanced erect on just its bristles before the gentlest breath sends it toppling to the floor.

“Are you looking for somebody?”

“Just, just you,” Liam confesses. No, not like a leaf, not that untamed. A leaf can break free, blow away, travel distances wife and far. But a leaf is almost more fragile. Liam is different. Somehow more resilient. More like a sturdy branch, bending but never breaking. Not unless something more than a strong wind comes along, like a heavy bout of freezing rain or some gardeners doing a spot of pruning. Quietly creaking from an autumn gust but never giving way.

“Does your grandpa know where you are?” Stan asks, beginning to stand. He's still holding his beer in his hand but there is nowhere convenient to set it, now that he's standing. He's been putting it on the ground between his feet between drinks. Some yellow liquid sloshes over the lip and trickles down his fingers. Frigidly cold as that is the only way to drink the cheapest of beers. “He's probably worried sick.”

“No, please,” Liam gets out, rushing over to block Stan before he can even begin to head back into the trailer. “I just needed to get away for a while.”

_Go to my room and I close my eyes_   
_I make believe that I have a new life_   
_I don't believe you when you say_   
_Everything will be wonderful someday_

“Get away from what?” Stan asks, frowning. He steps away from the boy, putting distance between them. He's too close. He can see the sweat on the boy's forehead, beads welling along his hairline. Liam wipes at his forehead but a few droplets still trick near his temple. The wispy blond strands near them look dark with moisture.

“Everybody,” Liam gets out, but his voice is tight. He's holding back tears, for some reason Stan cannot comprehend or possibly discern. What can possibly be going on here? “I just need a break. I didn't know where else I could go. I just walked out the door and kept walking and then I was here.”

“Did something happen to you?” Stan asks. He thinks about Stuart's offer, thinks about how he should have called the cops. He had assumed that the offer had been exclusive to him because of his reputation, because the older man has assumed Stan had a high probability of accepting his offer and even if he didn't nobody would take his word on the matter anyway. But what if Stan hadn't been the first, or last, man that Stuart has attempted to sell his grandson to? “Did somebody do something to you? Did somebody hurt you?”

“Can I sit down?” Liam asks, still bending but now more like a fragile, dry stick than yielding branch. Close to breaking. Dead. Stan moves out of the way and Liam stumbles over to his chair.

_Promises mean everything when you're little_   
_And the world is so big_   
_I just don't understand how_   
_You can smile with all those tears in your eyes_   
_When you tell me-_

Stan turns off the radio. It's too loud and he can barely hear Liam's mumbled apology. The sudden silence is jarring. It also feels like a barrier between them has suddenly vanished. As if there had been a literal, concrete wall of sound between them and now there is nothing but empty air.

He takes another step back from the boy.

Liam is leaning forward, his arms still around his stomach, breathing heavily. He looks like he might throw up, Stan isn't sure. Every instinct in his body is telling him to go to the waif-like boy, to put his arms around him and ask him what's wrong, but he keeps his distance. He cannot touch this boy. He shouldn't even be this near him. One ear waits for Liam to speak but the other is listening towards the road for anything approaching: footsteps, car tires, labored breathing. If he was a cat his ears would be twitching.

“What's wrong?” Stan asks again. He wants to kneel at Liam's feet, touch his exposed, knobby little knees. Not that he could kneel even if that was something he was allowed to do, not with his bad knee. But it feels wrong to stand over the kid like this. It feels domineering. He has memories of being very small at one point, much, much smaller than Liam is now, and how intimidating it had felt when a man had stood over him like this. He doesn't remember the details, he thinks it may have been at church, but he has consciously avoided towering over people his entire life just from that shadow of a memory. He walks to the side so he isn't facing Liam directly, giving him an escape route if needed.

The boy shakes his head.

“Can I have a drink?”

A drink? There is no way this boy walked over a mile to Stan's place for a drink. But he tells him he'll be right back and goes inside to grab him something to drink. He wishes he had something in a bottle or can besides beer, something he could give the kid a drink that wouldn't have him asking “did you put something in this?” But he can't afford any luxuries besides alcohol so he brings out a glass of tap water with a couple ice cubes thrown in.

Liam's fingers touch his own as he takes the glass from Stan. Ice clinks against ice, ice clinks against glass. There is a cracking sound as the cubes split inside. Liam drains the water quickly as Stan watches the way his throat moves. His lips are like silken rose petals on the rim. Liam holds the glass in both hands after, the water nearly empty, the cubes at the bottom already slowly melting.

“So are you going to talk to me?”

“I can't,” Liam says, shaking his head. “I'm not allowed.”

“You don't have to talk to me,” Stan replies. He gazes at the boy's hand, notices how limp his wrists look as they hang between his knees. “But maybe there is somebody else you can talk to? A teacher? Your father? Caleb?”

Liam just shakes his head, repeating, “I can't.”

There is definitely something wrong here and Stan doesn't know what to do. He can't tell the boy to leave, not in this state. He can't call anybody, there would be too many questions on why an eleven-year-old boy is on his property. And it feels awkward as all hell to just stand in his own yard, watching the kid sitting silently, unmoving, in the shade of his trailer.

Eventually, Stan goes inside and grabs another chair from the kitchen. He sets it far away from Liam, much farther than necessary. No shade here. The radio is on the ground between them, silent as the grave.

Liam isn't talking and neither is Stan. He wouldn't say the silence is comfortable, exactly, but the prospect of actually speaking is daunting. 

The boy stares at the ground and Stan stares at the boy. He notices things about him that he shouldn't. How his face has begun to thin out since last summer, his jaw sharper and his chin pointier. He notices how tan his skin is already for this early in the year, as if he has spent every waking moment since the last snowfall running around the fields and forests by his house. He notices the way his arm hair has already been bleached by the sun, standing out golden and shining in the sunlight, pale against the warmth of his honey skin. He notices the way he keeps brushing his hair from his eyes, looking long and unkempt. When's the last time he had a haircut?

The boy, on the other hand, just digs in the dirt with the tip of his sneaker. Making a little trough, or maybe an open grave.

Stan has no idea how long they sit there. Ten minutes? An hour? Three hours? His stomach starts to grumble.

“Are you hungry?” Stan asks Liam. He nods, not looking up.

There isn't much in the house, food-wise. Not that there ever is. He makes cold cheese sandwiches on white bread with mayo, wishing he had some tomatoes to add. Just a few more months and he can have tomato sandwiches again. He cuts Liam's in two and sets it on a plate with a handful of potato chips. His own sandwich he carries simply in one hand.

Liam is still sitting in the chair when he walks back outside. Stan is almost surprised by this fact. A good part of him expected Liam to take the opportunity to make a break for it but he didn't.

“Do you need more water?” Stan asks, holding the plate out for him.

“I'm okay,” Liam responds. He takes the plate. It wobbles mid-air as the boy's hand trembles. Stan takes the glass inside and refills it anyway, grabs himself another beer. Liam accepts the cup.

He doesn't take a bite of his sandwich until Stan does. How does a kid like Liam learn such manners? He seriously doubts that waiting for everybody else before eating was something either Kenny or Tammy or their parents had ever drilled into the kid. But he spends a lot of time with Caleb, or he used to it anyway. Kyle has always been a stickler for manners.

Once the boy takes one bite he all but inhales the sandwich, barely chewing the bread and generic American cheese. He swallows large chunks of the bread, swallowing sips of water between each bite to help it go down easier. The entire sandwich is gone before Stan has taken more than a couple of bites of his own. He wonders if he should offer Liam the rest of his? If he went inside and brought out a second sandwich would Liam snatch it off the plate and shove it down his throat as quickly as he had the first?

“How's school going?” Stan asks after both sandwiches are gone. Liam is slower with the chips, eating one at a time, savoring the flavor. The salt reddens his lips, making them appear tender and sensitive. Such a fragile child, able to be harmed by something as innocent as a handful of ruffled Lays ripoffs.

“Same as usual,” Liam replies, swallowing first so he can speak clearly. “They're putting me in pre-algebra next year. It's just a class for the seventh graders. Caleb is taking it too, so we'll have class together.”

Stan tries to ignore the pain that comes with the casual mention of his godson's name. Liam has every right to bring up his best friend and be happy to know they have a class together. Stan remembers how excited he always was whenever he had a class with Kyle. Especially as they both got older and began to drift apart. Kyle had his debate team, the school newspaper, and the French club. Stan had football practices, a garage band that lasted about six weeks, and a hobo he met up with every Thursday he paid to buy him a bottle of whatever liquor was on sale at the store by his house. Even during school Kyle was in honor's English, AP history classes, and, like Caleb apparently will be, skipped ahead a year in math. Tenth and eleventh had been the worst couple of years because they hadn't even had the same lunch period.

“This is your first year where you go to different rooms for each class, isn't it?” Stan asks. He's trying to remember how seventh grade had been for him. He's pretty sure that was the year that homeroom became nothing but a starting point for the rest of your day. Just a room where you find a spot to sit for a few minutes while the morning announcements blare over the speaker and the Pledge of Allegiance is recited. There had been a time, after the United States declared war on Iraq, that Kyle had taken a stance of refusing to stand for the recital of the Pledge. His mother had been called in and of course she had made such a big stink about personal freedoms that by the time she was done with their poor teacher she had been reduced to a flustered, weeping mess.

“Yeah,” Liam nods. “At least, that's what Hunter told me. I'm kind of scared. He says you only get one minute to get between classes and sometimes they're on opposite sides of the building. I don't want to get detention for being late.”

“Your brother is just trying to frighten you,” Stan assures the boy, giving him a small smile. The worrying line of Liam's mouth softens at the sympathetic gesture. “I don't remember how long you have to get between classes but it's more than a minute. They can't fit the entire school in detention, now can they?”

“That's true,” Liam consents. He sits up, arching his shoulders back. Probably trying to crack them, or his back in general. He's been hunched over for a while now. Stan watches him stand up, the trembling in his body absent. The boy walks a couple feet over to where the garden starts and looks down at the dirt. He's very careful not to step on the newly turned earth. “Did you plant anything?”

“Not yet,” Stan replies. He drinks from his beer and admires the view. The awkward silence from earlier has faded without him noticing it and it has been filled with the quieter sounds of spring. The whistling of the wind between the trees in the distance, the songs of the birds glad for warmth and long late afternoon shadows and mud full of squirming worms.

Liam looks like a painting. Like something you'd see in a Rockwell, maybe, a wholesome outline of a boy dressed in casual clothes, inspecting the world around him. The sun is leaning low to one side, illuminating him like a spotlight, glinting on his hair and making it glow like a halo over his head. The shadow to one side is tall and thin with spindles for legs. A distorted vision of the human body. The real boy, the solid boy, carries no such faults. He is, for all intents and purposes, about as close as humanity can get to perfection. Slim without being bony, soft-looking hair, soft-looking skin, golden all over. He has his arms crossed behind his head in a way that seems positively sinful, the sharp points of his shoulder blades showing and the little curve of muscle on his biceps begging to be licked. God, how long has it been since Stan has had any interactions with a real boy? He knows Liam is cute, he's always been cute, but he didn't used to watch him like this.

But how often had he been around Liam without Caleb close by, anyway? If he was then Kenny was most certainly there as well and he wasn't going to be caught staring at the kid with his father in proximity. Not that Kenny would probably even notice if some predatory did come up and snatch the kid right off the street beside him.

He's aware of the warmth of his chest and his heart in his throat, thudding loud and persistent up to his ears, before he realizes he's getting hard. He turns his head away, looking at some trees near the end of his yard, and tries to think of something else besides the way Liam's arms look in the sunlight.

“Mr. Marsh?”

“Yeah, Liam?”

“I, I need to go home soon,” he says, turning to face Stan once more. He lets his arms fall back to his side. “It's going to be dark out soon.  
”  
“It is,” Stan agrees. He sips at his beer but doesn't stand up to meet the boy in any way, shape, or form. His cock throbs between his legs and he brings them closer together to hide the shape in his shorts. Running shorts aren't the most concealing piece of clothing but they're at least baggy. He shifts his thighs up, purposely ruffling the fabric.

“Can I come back? Not, not tomorrow or anything, but sometimes?”

“Liam,” Stan says warning. The boy looks at him, his right hand gripping the fingers on his left, looking uncomfortable but hopeful. Stan sighs and leans forward. “Liam, you know what happened, don't you? You know why I live here now?”

“Because you like boys,” Liam confirms. The words sound so innocent, coming from his mouth. Like he had just accused Stan of liking kittens or swimming in the ocean or going on theme park rides. Something innocent and wholesome. Something much less damning than “you like boys.”

“You know what that means, right?” Stan asks. He doesn't look up at Liam. This is a hard enough conversation as it is, he doesn't know if he can say these things to somebody as naive and sweet as Liam without breaking down.

“Grandpa says you're a pedophile,” Liam responds. “He says you wanted to have sex with Caleb and that you probably want to have sex with me, too. But, but Caleb says you never did anything to him. He says that you wanted to but that you knew you would get in trouble if you did.”

That's...that's not entirely accurate. Did Stan want to have sex with Caleb? Well, yes, definitely. Did he know he would get in trouble if he did? Another yes. But that's not the reason he never touched Caleb. He's human, damn it. He's human. And most humans just don't have the instinct to take, rape, crush another human's body and soul. Stan never attempted to have sex with Caleb because he knew it was wrong. He loved Caleb, he still loves him, and he knows how easy it would be to break the child.

But let Liam think that the only reason he's not a rapist is that he doesn't want to be caught. Let him think that Stan could be capable of such acts. If it will keep him away it's for the best.

“You see why it's best you stay away from me, then,” Stan says stiffly. “For your good, and for mine.”

“But you didn't hurt Caleb,” Liam says, his voice unsteady. He sniffs and Stan can't but help and lookup. He's hugging himself around the stomach once more but he's not swaying. His eyes shine. “You were always nice to Caleb. You did things with him and gave him stuff. You took him places. And, and Caleb doesn't even want to see you now.”

Thanks for the reminder, kid. Like Stan wasn't aware that Caleb wants nothing to do with him.

“Caleb is a smart kid,” Stan reasons. He hoists himself out of his chair with his good arm. “You're a smart kid, too. I'm a stupid adult so I'm going to go inside and watch bad television and drink beer and overall be a bad role model. Don't be like me, Liam.”

“But you're not mean,” Liam gets out in a rush. “I was always jealous of Caleb, because he got to go places with you and, and that you gave him presents. If Caleb doesn't want you as a godfather anymore can't you be mine? Uncle Kevin isn't like you, he never brings me gifts or spends time with me.”

How messed up is this kid? What eleven-year-old boy begs a well-known pedophile to be their fucking godfather?

“Liam-” Stan starts, ready to end this for one and all. He's just going to give the kid a straight answer. No, you cannot come back here. No, you are not allowed to see me again. No, I will not be your fucking sugar daddy godfather. The boy approaches him in a shuffling manner, cautious as a stray dog. More of a puppy than a dog, though. He would make an adorable puppy. A chihuahua, probably, with big eyes and a short little button nose. “Liam, I can't-”

Arms go around Stan's waist. Skinny, soft arms that can't reach all the way around him. Stan's own arms go up without thinking, the hard cast knocking against the boy's back. Stan starts to apologize immediately but Liam yelps and jumps closer into Stan's body, as if trying to burrow into Stan's body, and that's when things become clear.

Liam's body feels so good against him. So warm and soft and small and yielding. His bare skin is like silk beneath Stan's fingers as he slips his hand into the back of Liam's shirt. He wants to grab handfuls of the yielding skin. He wants to hold him by the ribs as he drops to his knees and kisses his stomach and laps at his nipples and forces cries of pleasure out of him.

His hand slides up, instead, and he feels the dried blood. Liam jolts in his arms as if struck by lighting.

“Who did this to you?” Stan asks, softly, gently. Liam buries his face into Stan's chest, his nose pressed into his sternum. He just shakes his head. “Was it your grandfather? Your Uncle Kevin? One of the other kids?”

“I can't tell you,” Liam cries. Stan looks down at him and sees his tears already beginning to soak through his own shirt. He slides his hand down, out of Liam's shirt, and then hugs him up around his shoulder, where the lashings have not reached.

“Has it happened before?”

Liam nods, rubbing his nose into Stan's shirt. He leaves a trail of mucus on the cotton.

“How long has it been happening?”

This question Liam ignores. As well the other five Stan asks immediately following. So Stan stops asking questions. He stands there, holding the boy, trying to focus on how the boy is feeling and not how he feels, until Liam has gone quiet. Then he just listens to his breathing for a while. His thighs and knees start to cramp the action of standing still so long. He needs to walk it out but he's not going to bush Liam away.

Liam is the one who eventually pulls back. His face is pink and he rubs at his eyes. They're red, the rims vivid.

“I need to go home,” he says, already backing away from Stan. His shirt looks rumpled from where Stan had held him. “Don't tell anyone. I'll, I'll come back later. Please don't tell anyone.”

Stan feels helpless as he watches the boy runoff.

He feels helpless when he goes back inside.

He feels helpless watching television alone that night.

He feels helpless as he tries to fall asleep.

And he knows, as helpless as he feels, he can't feel nearly as helpless as an eleven-year-old boy does when he's being whipped bloody.

As he tosses and turns in bed that night he thinks of what he could do. An anonymous call seems like an option, surely. But who will believe the words of a young boy in South Park? If Liam was willing to talk at all? And what would the cops think, if he doesn't? What will they do if they see a boy with blood on his back who is too scared to talk who just happens to live down the street from the town's most famous pedophile? What if they trace his call? What if they record his voice? He could e-mail, but then they could trace his IP address.

And who, in South Park, really cares if the McCormick boy is being abused? This town has always thrived on corporal punishment and the McCormicks are just a bunch of poor white trash.

What is the likelihood of the cops doing anything at all? What is the likelihood of the cops brushing off the entire incident as “parental rights.”  
Stan lays in bed, hating himself, and thinking that what all those people said is right. He is a danger to children.

**Chapter 11**

Stan's arm feels pruny.

It's the sort of pruny your toes get when you've been wading around a river in wet shoes for too long. Different from the pruny feeling of being too long in a hot bathtub. More tender. More vulnerable. But he hasn't felt that sort of pruny in a long time. Not around his toes. If he feels like the weather might call for a change of shoes at work he brings an extra pair and whenever he's gone hiking for the last decade he has always worn his heavy, waterproof hiking boots whenever he feared a morning dew or a river that might need crossing.

This feeling, this tender, wrinkled feeling that leaves him feeling like a baby mouse, is a memory of years gone past. Of nights jumping in the grass after wayward nightcrawlers or hunting frogs in the pond. Kenny had always gone barefoot on those ventures but neither Stan nor Kyle's parents would allow them to do such a thing. He had always been required to wear a pair of thin cotton shoes from the dollar store whenever wading in the pond, because, 'You never know if there's broken glass or leeches in there, Stanley.'

By the time he trudged home the water would've sloshed out the eyelets of the shoes but there would still be enough to keep his feet as sleek and damp as a glazed ham.

That is how his arm feels now. Part glazed ham, part wrinkled little boy toes, part baby pink mouse. Only two of those three things are moderately appealing.

“Alright, Mr. Marsh, go ahead and bend at the elbow for me. How does that feel?”

Stan follows the doctor's orders, bending here and there, lifting his arm, making a fist. His grip feels loose and weak, the muscles in his forearm tremble. He lets the doctor know.

“To be expected,” the graying man responds with a nod. He pats Stan on the shoulder as if he were a beloved grandson. “Just be careful with it. Use it, but don't strain it, you've still got some healing to do. Soak it in the bath to bring down the swelling and you'll be back to full strength before you know it.”

Stan nods. His arm feels light and slim without the cast. He extends both arms in front of himself, trying to see if he can see any sign of muscle loss in his right arm. The arms look different but mostly because the right arm is flaking with dry skin and all his arm hair is lying flat and limp looking, not curly and fluffy like on his left. He feels like a fiddler crab, his left arm bulging with muscle while his right arm can barely do more than bring tiny specks of food to his mouth, but he doesn't look like some asymmetrical beast.

“Thank you, for everything,” Stan says. He slides off of the bed and has to right himself immediately. Used to compensating for the extra weight on his right he finds himself leaning to the left without thinking. Odd how quickly you can get used to anything, given the time. Like when he had braces as a teenager. That first day had seemed like torture and he had complained to his mom it was like having a zipper behind his lips.  
He had wondered, at the time, if this had been how it felt to be a horse with a bit in its mouth. Do horses get used to that? By the time he had them removed it had felt just as weird to feel the sleekness of his own teeth once more.

“Of course. You have the sheet the nurse gave you right? Good. Good. Make sure to follow the aftercare. Keep your arm elevated for the next few days.”

It's nearly Memorial Day. Stan thinks about this as he walks down the hallway to the receptionist to sign whatever it is they need to be signed. There are red, white, and blue banners hung along the ceilings like when he was in an elementary school rather than a hospital. He thinks about that hospital he had gone to in college, how boring and sterile it had been compared to this one. Not that he had great memories of it. He wouldn't say the alcohol poisoning had been a suicide attempt but he sure hadn't been thinking about how much life was worth living while he downed that entire bottle of whiskey.

South Park is a weird place. Growing up in South Park makes everywhere else seem weird just in their normalcy. When your entire childhood was nothing but absurdity the unlikely becomes likely and the mundane becomes extraordinary.

Or is Stan just looking through his childhood with rose-colored glasses? 

Or LSD-colored glasses, more likely, because there is no way his childhood could have been as weird as he remembers it being.

The waiting room has several big bouquets of patriotic flowers as well, each in a clear vase on one of the handful of tables. Does the hospital have to buy those? Are they donated? So many flowers go in and out of the hospital, so many are thrown away. At the private hospital Stan had worked at, really just a rehab clinic if you're going to be technical, there hadn't been that many flowers. Nobody brought junkies flowers.

Jimbo will probably be receiving plenty of them. Stan hasn't been to visit his grave, as bad a nephew as that makes him, but he imagines the ground will be carpeted in flowers. His uncle was a popular guy, some people still talk about that show he used to host on one of the local channels. And he was a Veteran. Considering this is the first Memorial Day since his death he'll probably be visited by a bunch of the guys from the VFW.

It would be nice to go see him. Even if he would have removed him from his Will, given the chance, he had at one time loved Stan enough to leave his war medals to him. They had drifted apart over the years as Stan stopped eating meat and became a “bleeding heart” but he had never felt like his uncle had stopped caring for him.

Of course, he hasn't seen his uncle in over a year. Since before everything went to shit.

The two thousand dollars in bonds left to him help some, at least. Even if it's just to cover the cost of a six-pack.

At first, Stan doesn't recognize the young man in front of him. He steps up behind him, still looking at the display of flowers, and nearly bumps into the kid. He looks to be maybe fourteen, fifteen from the back, with long, lanky arms, the muscles showing like rope. He's wearing shorts and the red-gold curls on his legs don't quite match the brown-red curls on his head which are cut so short it looks almost more like wool than hair. He's incredibly skinny and Stan thinks, for a moment, the kid might be here for anorexia. This diagnosis gains further ground when he hears the elderly woman beside him arguing with the receptionist, “My grandson needs to see the doctor now! This Abilify crap they have him on is giving him the shakes! He needs a different prescription today!”

Stan was on Abilify for a while, after one of his suicide attempts. It had been one in a long line of medication but he had stopped taking it pretty quickly. He couldn't drink on it, it left him dizzy, and he preferred beer to drugs.

Besides, drugs would never help him. He wasn't depressed because he had a chemical imbalance. He was depressed because he was a monster. He's supposed to be depressed.

“Grandma,” the boy objects. He tries to grab at the robust woman's arm but she pats the hand on her shoulder and shushes him. 

“Be quiet bubbeh, let me take care of this.”

Stan freezes. He's suddenly fourteen-years-old in a marzipan-scented kitchen, listening to Sheila Broflovski scream at the principal over the phone because they dared put Kyle in regular English instead of honors. 

He can't believe he didn't recognize this woman. He can't believe he didn't recognize her voice. But her red beehive is gone and in its place she's sprouting one of those short, feathered haircuts that gray-haired women often wear. It makes her appear much shorter and much less menacing.

Still, when she turns around triumphantly, after the poor woman in front finally informs her that she has managed to find an opening, Stan feels nothing but terror.

Her eyes widen for a moment and then her lips purse and her brow furrows. Stan expects her to do something. Attack him, physically maybe, at least verbally. He expects her to at the very least spit a nasty insult or two.

Instead, she sticks an arm out to her left side and pushes the teenage boy behind her. She takes a step closer to Stan, intending to pass him, her charge secure behind her back. But this gawky teenage boy looms over his grandmother and his mouth opens in surprise when he spots who is behind them in line.

“Uncle Stan,” Caleb manages to get out. But Sheila is already shushing him, pushing him back again, out of Stan's reach.

This is not a teenage boy. This is his godson, who will be twelve in less than a month, and has apparently shot up an inch a month since the last time Stan saw him. His skinniness is not the result of an eating disorder but rather a normal response to the body shooting up too much, too quickly. He hasn't had time to fill out yet.

Sheila didn't need to use her body to shield her grandson. She didn't need to push Caleb out of the way because Stan is absolutely mortified. He's frozen, watching Caleb being pulled away by short, chubby fingers wrapped around his bony wrist. He has _arm hair_. Not the soft, silken threads of a youth but the thick, coarse curls of a man.

The fact Stan has raised his hand to his mouth in shock escapes him until he smells his own breath hitting him in the face. Stale beer.

For as bad a year as Stan has had, puberty has not just beaten Caleb over the head with a stick, it fucked him up good with a baseball bat and a hockey stick for good measure.

He looks so, so _old_.

“Grandma,” Caleb pleads. He turns to look at Stan and it's like watching some horror movie. One of those movies where somebody is skinned and the villain wears their face around. He can still see Caleb in his features, in his eyes and his lips and his cheekbones, but it's so distorted looking. Pulled tight in odd areas, his chin too strong. There's a _zit_ on his forehead, standing out red and angry on his pale skin. It's a monstrosity. “I just want to talk to him. She always says it'd be good for me to confront him.”

“And your parents keep telling that quack no,” Sheila hisses. 

She's gripping Caleb so hard it has to leave marks. The boy is clenching his teeth in pain and something in Stan reacts, reaching for them before he can help himself. He's still in shock over this new development, this vile transformation, but he's still his godson and he'd still do anything to protect him.

Sheila screeches at him. She hits his arm, his still sore, sensitive arm, with her purse. “Get away from my grandson you child rapist!”

Stan moans in pain, recoiling. He didn't even mean to reach for them. He wouldn't do that on purpose, not after everything that has happened. He just wanted to help Caleb. He just wanted to comfort his godson.

People are staring at them.

Hushed murmurs come from the seats behind them. The receptionist watches with an intrigued stare. Doubtless, this is the most interesting thing that has happened to her all day. But then Sheila is gone and the woman behind the counter is asking Stan if she can help him.

He has trouble signing the receipts with his aching forearm. His fingers are trembling, he feels sick. Bile surges up his throat and he swallows it back down. It tastes like acrid beer.

As soon as he can, Stan has found the nearest restroom and he's throwing up. He didn't even have time to close the stall and his body cramps as he hugs the basin. The only thing in his stomach is beer and it smells like rancid sewage as it congeals in the toilet.

For the first time in a long time, Stan isn't wishing Caleb was here.  


  
  
“I can hold that for you, if you want, Mr. Marsh.”

Stan shakes his head, smiling to himself at the offer. It’s the smile of somebody appreciating the simplicities of life. The sort of smile a person smiles when their alarm goes off before dawn and they realize it’s Labor Day and they can turn around and burrow back into their blankets. Or the sort of smile one has after having a rotten tooth yanked out of their head, bringing a cease to agonizing pain. 

A couple weeks ago, he would have probably accepted the offer for help.

A couple weeks ago, his arm was still too sore to carry a basket around the garden for any extended period of time.

A couple weeks ago, he wouldn't be in the garden picking his first batch of red lettuce leaves in the first place.

“I'm good, Liam. Keep pulling at the radishes.”

Liam nods. The boy is on his knees in the dirt, digging out the small pink roots, his bare legs, scrawny and bird-like, filthy with drying soil. When he stands the blond fuzz of his calves is dusted with the stuff, powdery and chalklike. What would you call the color of this dirt? Stan thinks about it, remembering his old 64 pack of crayons from childhood. The one with the crayon sharpener in the back. Burnt sienna. That was the crayon that matched the dirt out behind his house. The color of mountains where the cowboys used to ride past.

Caleb used to have a cowboy hat. Back during his Toy Story era. It had been burnt sienna too. Like that little cowgirl doll’s hat. He had looked like her back then, with his red hair long, the curls not yet set so his locks fell babyishly around his face.

His hair had been lighter then, softer. Like the hair on his arms.

Except, no. They’re darker now. The same color of the soil Liam is digging through with such dedication.

He doesn’t have red arm hair. The hair on his arms is almost white, as bleached by the sun as they are. But his leg hair? It looks like a bad dye job as the powder begins to flake from the coarser blond hair below the legs of his shorts. Strawberry blond, almost, the red dirt and the blond hair melting together. Definitely not a burnt sienna.

Stan plucks the last few of the ripe looking leaves and stands up straight, feeling his vertebrae crack. He’s aging before his time. Maybe a side effect of the menial manual labor that affords him the right to live in such luxury. But this. He enjoys this. Gardening. He hadn’t enjoyed it as a kid, those few months when his father had moved them all out to Tegridy Farms, but back then it had meant moving away from Kyle. And besides, marijuana isn’t as rewarding. You can’t just pick a leaf and eat it.

Or can you?

His mother had been very specific on exactly what Stan was allowed and what he wasn’t allowed to do with the products on the farm. But alcohol has always been Stan’s drug of choice, even back at that age, and the pot hadn’t held any allure. He had just missed his best friend so damn much.

Moving away from Kyle now doesn’t quite sound so bad. Farming. He could do that. If he had the money to buy a place, that is. Funny how the thought never crossed his mind before. Not until he’s harvesting his first load of lettuce and radish and feeling more than the dirt beneath his nails. The leaves are warm from the sun, fragrant as rosemary. Rosemary. He could grow that. Out front, maybe. It would look decorative.

But to want to grow a decorative herb would imply that Stan cares about how the trailer looks. That would make it seem like he planned on staying.  
He can’t farm three acres of land.

He can’t afford more than three acres of land either. And these three acres are plenty of work for just him and Liam. And Liam. Well. Stan would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy having the boy around.

“I'm going to make us a salad,” Stan announces as Liam deposits the radishes into the basket. “I wish I had some tomatoes but doesn't this sound better than just peanut butter sandwiches?”

Liam rubs his hands together, dirt crumbling to the ground beside his feet. He doesn’t answer, just shrugs, a bony shoulder showing as his oversized t-shirt hangs to one side. He doesn't ever complain about the meals Stan feeds him, just seems happy to have something, anything, to eat. He still won't tell Stan much about what's going on at home but he always seems hungry; it makes Stan worry about his brothers and sisters.  
But he can't do anything about them. He can’t tell Liam to bring them over or give him food to bring home. Liam is his side project. A guilty pleasure. A pet to come home to in a home that doesn’t allow animals.

“Go wash off with the hose,” Stan says, already turning towards the trailer.

“Can't I come inside and use the sink?” Liam complains, following at Stan's heals. “The water from the hose is really cold.”

Of course the water from the hose is cold, it's connected to the well. But Stan never had any issue with spraying himself down with a hose as a kid. It was a good way to cool down on a hot summer day, actually, and he has fond memories of Kyle and himself taking turns hosing each other down. Kyle had looked so vulnerable in those days, his hair limp over his eyes, skin pale no matter how deep into summer they were. You never saw how skinny he was back then unless you saw him drenched, his clothes sticking to his body, as he shivered with his arms around his stomach.

Liam wouldn't look like that. His skin is golden and his hair already turning white-blond from the sun. He's not bony like Kyle was bony either, there's something more waif-like about him, as if he is made to be this small. With Kyle there had always been a sense that his fat and muscle just hadn't caught up to his ribs and pelvic bone quite yet. Liam, in contrast, seems perfectly proportioned. Smaller than boys his age, definitely, but more of a miniature version of the other boys than a malnourished version.

In all likelihood, his growth probably has been stunted by external factors.

“Mr. Marsh?” Liam pleads, grabbing at the bottom of Stan's t-shirt. “Please? I've been good, haven't I? You never let me come in.”

Of course Stan doesn't let him come in. He shouldn't allow him to be here at all and has tried to send him away many times over the last few weeks. But it does no good. Liam shows up whenever he feels like it, often with a stiff gait to his step or eyes shining with hunger. Sometimes, he shows up when Stan is outside just watching the birds caring for their hatchlings outback. Sometimes, he shows up when Stan is asleep, and he doesn't discover him until he goes outside to check the mail.

He was waiting for Stan when he came home from work today. He has no idea how long he sat outside waiting for him. Tammy is home now, Stan has seen her around, so the fact this behavior continues is more than disconcerting.

For now, all Stan can do is wait until Kenny is released so he can sit down and have a talk with him.

“You know why I can't let you inside,” Stan says, but there's no real conviction in his voice. He's repeated this argument so many times that it isn't even an argument anymore, it's just a statement. Like reading a disclosure for the hundredth time in one day. He might as well print it out and give the kid a copy.

“Yeah, I know,” Liam agrees, limply. He stops at the door and waits for Stan obediently like a devoted dog. Not the first time Stan had made that comparison in his head. He’d mentioned it once to Liam, in passing, asking him if he was taking lessons from Hachi but the boy hadn’t gotten the reference.

He doesn’t bother to wash off with the hose. When Stan emerges with the bowls of salad, Liam is standing exactly where he left him, dirty hands hanging at his side. He’s wearing what appears to be a man’s large Space Jam t-shirt of all things, who knows where he even found a Space Jam t-shirt, and where it lies on his hips is dusty from wiping his hands on the worn cotton.

“You going to eat like that?” Stan asks, nodding down at the dirt-caked hands.

“I told you the hose is too cold. It makes my fingers go numb. It hurts.”  
Stan sighs heavily through his nose and turns his head, looking around. He probably looks like a startled rabbit. But nobody is around to see him. Though he supposes if anybody was around they would probably already be calling him out for just talking to the boy anyway.

“Okay, but just go wash your hands in the kitchen,” Stan instructs him. “It’s to the right. I’ll stay out here. Hurry up.”

“Really?” the boy asks, his voice sounding as excited as if Stan had just invited him to go to Disneyland with him. How truly pathetic a situation this really is. What eleven-year-old boy is that excited to go inside a pedophile’s shitty, falling apart trailer?

It isn’t even a doublewide.

Stan watches the boy prance up the metal stairs and disappear through the back door. The screen slams behind him. Something about screen doors always reminds Stan of hazy summer days and the smell of cornfields. Liam calls out something to him, sounding as happy as a clam. Except clams don’t have feelings. Bivalves. Stan would kill for some of Heidi’s steamed mussels right now. But salad is good. He looks down at the bowls in his hands, the greens shining with vinaigrette and traces of tap water from the rinse. He sets them down on the table that separates the two kitchen chairs. Stan on the left, Liam on the right. Like a marriage bed.

He quickly wipes that thought from his mind.

“Can I use the watermelon soap?” Liam calls out the window. He sounds as excited by the prospect as if he were requesting real watermelon.

“Go ahead,” Stan calls back.

Would Caleb be excited about going into Stan’s trailer? Every time he’s run into him, the boy has wanted to talk to him. But no, Stan can’t see him being excited about something as mundane as being allowed into his godfather’s home. He wouldn’t even be excited about going to Disneyland, probably. He’s been so many times over the years. Stan thinks, again, about how warm and soft the boy’s thigh had felt against his own on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. How hot the boy’s bare leg had felt through the cool mist of the ride. How intimate the experience had seemed at the time.

Liam has never been to any theme park, as far as Stan is aware. Has he even been to Casa Bonita? Probably. Caleb has had a few birthdays there over the years, surely Liam was invited. Stan is ashamed to admit that he can’t even remember if Liam had been present or not at any of the birthday celebrations. He had always been so hyperfocused on Caleb, even when he was nothing but a bratty toddler in Toy Story leggings, that he had been blind to his other surroundings.

How long has Caleb been Stan’s reason for living? Long before he found himself physically attracted to him. He was his godson, the hope for the future, the epitome of wholesomeness in the world.

Stan can’t him but thinking about the run-in with him at the hospital with Sheila. He thinks about the pimple marring his skin and again, his stomach rolls.

That panicky feeling is returning. The one that had passed so quickly in the hospital. The one that he feels every time he sees a beautiful boy transforming into a mediocre man before his eyes. That sense of impending doom and lost opportunities. Of old age, wrinkles, gray hair, death. He breathes deeply. In. Out. In. Out. Tries to take himself back to that dark ride but all he can imagine now is the adolescent version of Caleb there next to him, stinking of acne cream and Axe spray. Red, manly arm hair pressed against his own.

Then he’s thinking of strawberry blond hair. Liam’s hair, dusted with soil. Soft, blond hair, sweet and thin. Peach fuzz. Glowing like silken thread in the spring sun. The sun. Warm. Giving life. Liam’s hair a halo of the sun brought to earth.

By the time Liam has returned the swimming in Stan’s head has calmed. In the span of two minutes Stan had nearly driven himself to the edge of a panic attack and returned. Somehow, Stan had no idea how, but somehow, Liam knows something is wrong. His face is damp when he presses it into Stan’s chest, the hint of watermelon soap cutting through the air as his lithe arms go around his waist. Stan returns the hold, not thinking of the consequences until he’s already buried his face in the boy’s soft blond hair.

Only when he inhales deeply and smells the smell of sweat and dirt and sunshine and Suave shampoo and just boyness, does he realize what he’s doing. And then his mind tells him to let go. To pull his arms back and push him away from him. He needs to tell Liam that he shouldn’t be touching him.

But he should also be telling the boy not to visit anymore and he’s been doing a bad job at that as well. Oh, he tells Liam every time he stops by that he shouldn’t be here, but he never tells him he can’t be here.

“It’s okay,” Stan mumbles to himself, tasting the blond summer locks on his lips. They tickle his nose like delicate butterfly wings. “I won’t do anything.”

“Are you okay?” Liam asks, the question coming out breathless. Stan is holding him harder than he should, pressing the boy up close against him. Liam is on the tips of his toes, leaning against Stan for support as the older man has him captive in his grip. His ribs, bony, protrude through the t-shirt to press against Stan’s own rough man skin.

“I’m fine,” Stan assures him. “Just give me one more minute. Just one more minute.”

One more minute of softness and warmth and the smell of boy sweat. He can’t do anything bad in just one minute.

Liam is so small and perfect in his arms that Stan isn’t sure if he wants to cry or not. No acne or wrinkles or death lie in this boy’s supple skin.

“Mr. Marsh?”

“Just stay like this,” Stan gets out.

“Not going anywhere,” Liam promises, voice muffled. But he doesn’t really understand what Stan is really asking of him and he has no way to stop the passage of time.

**Chapter 12**

Summer sneaks up on Stan like a soft-footed cat on the heels of a jumpy field mouse. Spring in the mountains is notoriously short (six more weeks of winter if the groundhog sees its shadow? try three more months of winter regardless of the fact) but the solstice is never what truly marks the beginning of summer. The position of the sun in the sky, the hour that marks dusk. Those things are part of summer but they don’t define summer. Scientists have the cause and effect all wrong. Their priorities are misplaced.

No, the definition of summer is less about weather and length of mid-day shadows and solar rotation, and more about a certain kind of feeling. Of sound and smell and the slowness of a heartbeat with no more pressing a concern than being sure to fit in a shower sometime before waking and sleep. Preferably daily, but at least every third.

Summer is defined by a series of commonalities. Of nostalgic clues harkening back to seemingly prehistoric times. In his mid-thirties, Stan’s childhood may seem prehistoric to the younger generation. Endless hours of his own summers had been wasted on activities that must seem both foreign and meaningless to kids these days: pogs, Tamagotchis, Skip-Its. But some of Stan’s childhood remains. The seasonal ice cream shop opening its door on the first day of June. The smell of freshly cut hay in the fields. The taste of funnel cake and popcorn at the Park County Fair. 

Stan will not be partaking in any of those rituals this year, far from town, farms, and fairgrounds. The last one, in particular, causes Stan’s heart to ache as he remembers Butters’ hopeful attempt to get Stan to go to the state fair with him. He can almost taste the snow cones on his tongue as the temperature creep upwards. When’s the last time he even had one of those frozen treats?

Other signs of the season Stan is still capable of wallowing in. The hum of the crickets as the sun draws down. The waves of hot fumes dancing over the tar of the road. But the most important sign of summer, as it always had been, city or country or the suburbs in between, is that of the school children on vacation.

Summer is not truly summer until a pack of screaming children in shorts and tank tops are running through a sprinkler or eating smoke-drenched hotdogs on their faded porch steps. Stan buys a cheap ice shaver and makes snow cones from frozen berries and apple juice.

Most importantly, summer for Stan, this year anyway, means almost daily visits by one tow-headed cherub by the name of Liam McCormick.

It doesn’t matter how many times Stan tells the boy to not come back, he always shows up at his trailer sometime between sunrise and sunset. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes barely before the sun goes down. Even if he is only able to stay and visit for fifteen minutes, Liam never misses his visit. Stan has started to make time for him, staying up later than he normally would after work or waking up early to talk with him. 

But today. Today is his day off. And Liam seems to know that because he always arrives early on those days, sometime just shortly after sunrise, and he stays the entire day until the crickets begin to sing out their alarm that it is time for him to head home.

And today is no exception except today is totally different.

It started out normally. Stan arrived home from work, feet aching, back creaking, and there he had been, the literal light at the end of the tunnel. Liam was sitting on the rickety stairs of the front porch, scrawny legs pulled up to his chest, a healing scab on one knee, playing on an old first-generation Nintendo DS. It wasn’t dark out, summer’s early sunrise and all, but it wasn’t entirely light out either. The boy’s face glowed from fifty feet away, the game’s screen illuminating him from below like some unholy demon. A fallen angel.

Stan told him to go around back and he toasted them some frozen waffles for breakfast, carrying them out on two plates, the maple syrup already poured out on one plate but the other still bare. Liam likes to add the syrup to his own waffles. He’s meticulous about it, filling each individual square of the frozen breakfast meal as if they were ice cube trays. But no crossing between each box, and no overfilling. Only once each and every little cube had been filled with maple syrup would he dig in.

So no, that was the usual. Breakfast. Then a little work in the garden before it got too hot. Maybe later Stan would bring out his own DS and they could play Mario Kart together, or maybe they’d play a game of horseshoes on the set behind the garden.

Something had felt off in the air, but neither had noticed. Liam was too young to recognize that feeling and Stan too preoccupied with his eyes on the boy. 

The storm was so sudden. There hadn’t been anything online about rain in the forecast, let alone thunder and lightning, and they had heard the crack of the thunder before the first droplets began to fall. The boom had caused a stiffening in the boy’s back, a widening of his crystalline blue eyes. The sound of a character dying sounded from the DS. And then the water began to come down.

It was so quick.

And it was a downpour.

Stan’s hair was already soaked by the time he made it from one side of the garden to the other and water splashed off the door. His hand slipped on the metal handle of the screen door, jamming his thumb. He cursed, sticking it in his mouth in reflex. His fingers were still filthy with soil and it tasted like dirt.

He doesn’t even think about Liam until he turns around to close the door behind him and doesn’t see him behind him. Thrusting his head out the space in the door, Stan looks both ways, spotting the child, sopping wet, his back pressed to the metal siding of the trailer. Trying to take refuge from the downpour under the pathetic excuse for eaves that the trailer provides.

“Come on,” Stan calls, holding out his hand.

Liam’s eyes are big as he rushes over, grabbing Stan’s hand in his own. A move that ends up being needed as he slips on the metal stairs and almost goes crashing down. Stan catches him, refusing to release the boy’s tiny hand. Liam catches himself.

Today, Stan closes both doors behind them. He likes leaving the inside door open during the normal light summer showers, but the rain is loud and the thunder crashes closer. He is afraid of the lightning coming through.

He gives Liam the fluffiest clean towel he can find and leads him to the small bathroom.

Liam doesn’t object when Stan towels off his hair, rustling it. His hair is straight and thin like Stan’s was at his age, not curly and thick like Caleb’s. It stands up on end, giving him a shocked appearance. Like Stan’s own bedhead when he wakes up from a two-day binger.

Or how Butters’ would after he had been thoroughly fucked in the mattress.

Sex hair.

Stan tries not to think about it. The boy’s eyes are still closed and he doesn’t notice how the man looks at him.

“Stay here,” he instructs quickly, trying to put room between himself and the boy. Not just physical but mental.

Even the sight of Caleb’s old clothes doesn’t put the image of the flustered blond out of Stan’s mind. Normally he cannot see these items, let alone touch them, without thinking of what he has lost. He is not thinking of Caleb when he hands them over but only of Liam's rain-soaked body.

Liam seems surprised when Stan offers him the pile of clothing.

“I can’t leave you drenched,” Stan says, explaining his actions in a rush. “You’ll drip water all over. And your parents will ask where you were.”

“No, they won’t,” Liam replies, but he takes the clothes from Stan, holding them away from his body and Stan is unsure it is out of disdain or need to retain their dryness. “They might ask why I’m wearing Caleb’s old clothes though.”

“You won’t be,” Stan assures him, “Bring your wet clothes out with you and we’ll put them in front of the fan to dry.”

Stan misses the dryer at his old apartment. He hangs his own clothes up to dry now, either on the line or in his bedroom on the clothing rack in inclement weather, but the boy’s clothes are much too wet for that. He’ll wash them. The washer will ring out the wet clothes better than he could by hand, then he’ll throw them in front of the fan to finish. If Liam stays as late as he usually does on Stan’s days off that should be plenty of time for them to dry.

He changes into a fresh pair of his own clothes, sweatpants and a t-shirt, and finds Liam already waiting in the kitchen. Standing in the middle of the area between the kitchen and living room, looking around as if uncertain what he should be doing.

The wet clothes drip from his hands.

“Give me those,” Stan says, reaching out for them. He is careful not to brush his fingers against Liam’s. “Then have a seat wherever you wish.”

The clothes are so small in Stan’s hands. Shorts and a t-shirt? They feel no bigger than a washcloth, rolled up, cold and damp. Stan unrolls them and throws them into the washer. It’s already half-full of his own dirty clothes as he finds it easier just to throw them in there than try to find a place in the crowded trailer for them. Shirt. Shorts. Underwear.

Underwear. He hadn’t thought to bring Liam underwear.

And he didn’t really need to. They’re dry. The shirt had been soaked along the shoulders and chest and the shorts were pretty damp, but his little briefs are as dry and unperturbed as if they had just come out of his dresser.

They feel almost warm in his hands. Maybe from leftover body heat, or maybe just the contrast between them and the cold, wet clothes and the chill in Stan’s hands.

They’re cute. Simple. Gray and thick, newer than most of Liam’s other clothing, which is a nice thought. His parents buy him something that isn’t used or hand-me-downs. The elastic is still tight, un-frayed. They’re very soft. Stan can all but see Liam standing there in the bathroom, shivering and dripping, wearing nothing but these little briefs. 

Which means he’s wearing nothing under the pair of Caleb’s jeans right now. Stan feels bad about that. Soft-skinned boys shouldn’t allow such hard denim to rub across...those areas of their body. It could chafe him. Stan tries to ignore that image of Liam’s cute little penis, red and sore inside his godson’s jeans.  
He could bring the underwear back out with him, tell them he was free to put them back on. But somehow, bringing attention to the boy’s underwear doesn’t feel like the best course of action. It’s best to pretend he didn’t even notice them. He’ll tuck them back into the shorts when he returns them, as if they had been inside there the whole time.

He resists the urge to lift the briefs to his face and smell them.

That really would be going way too far.

He tosses them into the washer instead, ignoring the catch in his throat and the panic in his chest. He wants to grab them out again but he closes the lid instead and turns on the wash cycle. Forces himself to let go of them missed opportunity. Liam trusts him and this is not how he should repay that trust.

He is sitting on the couch when Stan returns. There is no window directly behind him and it feels safer here than most of the trailer. Good choice. Somehow, Stan had assumed he would take a seat at the kitchen table near the big window, but instead, he’s on Stan’s plush, overpriced couch. A relic from a bygone era when he had money to waste on such extravagances. 

It’s so large and over-stuffed that Liam all but disappears between the cushions. Stan is glad he can offer such a comfortable seat to the boy.

“You want to watch something?”

A shrug. Liam’s normal response to any questions concerning what he may or may not want. He often seems incapable of making decisions on his own wants and needs. If he asked Liam to pick out a show he thought Stan would like he probably would have gotten a different response but he thought of that too late. He turns on the television and surfs through some cartoons.

They sit on opposite ends of the couch, a pile of throw pillows between them, watching old episodes of Invader Zim. On top of the pile of cushions is a bowl of salt and vinegar chips. Stan tries to avoid letting their fingers touch in the bowl but he doesn't have control over when Liam reaches in and inevitably their fingers brush against each other. Then it happens a second time. Just an accident but it reminds Stan of the failed dates he had taken to the movie theater. Men and women who had both tried to play coy with buttered popcorn. None of those encounters had left Stan's blood sizzling in his veins like this.

Liam’s never seen Invader Zim and finds it riveting. He asks questions about the characters, some of which Stan can answer, some of which he cannot. When Stan reaches for one of the pillows, hugging it to his chest, the boy copies the move, leaving only two pillows between them.

It never does stop raining that day. Except around noon when the sound changes from the clanging patter of hard rain on the metal roof to what sounds like a million golf balls falling from the sky.

“Hail,” Stan explains, glancing out the window. He grimaces, worrying about the vegetables outside. Surely hail couldn’t kill them that easily? How else would nature continue to thrive if it could be so easily defeated by some freak weather?

Around one, Stan dozes off. When he shakes himself awake about an hour later the television has changed to episodes of Spongebob Squarepants and Liam is curled up around the pile of pillows, fast asleep. There’s some drool at the corner of his mouth.

“Pain in the butt,” Stan mutters, smiling despite himself.

The entire trailer feels damp and cool. The prolonged rain has left an autumn-feeling in the air and Stan hopes this isn’t a sign of an early fall. He isn’t ready for summer to end; it feels like it has barely begun.

Stan tucks a fleece throw blanket around Liam and gets up to make something to eat for the two of them. The weather all but decides for him and he throws together a soup of bouillon and frozen vegetables. The can of crushed tomatoes adds a heartiness but for some reason Stan finds himself wishing for some ground beef. When’s the last time he had vegetable soup with ground beef?

Probably sometime when his mother still did the majority of the cooking for him.

Instead, he adds a generous load of dried parsley and black pepper. He finishes the meal by throwing a few pieces of Texas toast in the oven. Not quite the same as a good, fresh loaf of crusty bread, but as close as he can get.

Liam seems happy with the meal. He dips the bread into the soup, his legs swinging beneath Stan’s kitchen table. Bare feet looking pink and vulnerable.

“What is this?” the boy asks through a mouth full of vegetables and bread. “It’s good.”

“Just vegetable soup,” Stan tells him.

“But it’s chewy.”

“Barley. You like it?”

“Yeah,” Liam confirms, nodding. “Can I have more?”

There isn’t more. Stan had emptied the pot when he poured the two bowls. But he spoons out as much of the barley from his own bowl as he can and deposits the plump little pearls on the top of Liam’s soup. He’d rather go without than leave the boy wanting more. Barley isn’t one of those things he can buy at the store but it’s not that expensive to order another bag through Amazon. He tries to make a mental note to buy a few bags of it if it’s something Liam would like.

It stops pouring for a couple short minutes and it feels so quiet in the kitchen without the ongoing drumming of water against the roof to cut through the silence. Stan considers maybe getting up and turning on the radio but something about the silence is nice. Cozy, almost. Like a date at a nice restaurant. Instead, he asks Liam questions about his siblings and his grandparents. His answers are short and concise, offering little more than direct answers to Stan’s inquiries. It begins to rain again.

Liam stays until it really stops. The clouds linger but are not as steel-gray as they had been. It isn’t dark out, not yet, but Stan tells him he has to get going.

“It might start raining again,” Stan explains. “And your mother is probably worried about you, you haven’t been home all day.”

“She thinks I’m with Caleb,” he confesses, pulling at the bottom of his newly-dried shirt as if he were trying to hide under it like it were a blanket. “She doesn’t care how long I’m gone if I’m with Caleb. His eyes shift upwards to the portrait still hanging on Stan’s wall. “She likes Caleb. Everybody likes Caleb.”

“Well, I like you,” Stan says, matter-of-fact.

“Not as much as you like Caleb.”

Stan thinks of Caleb. Of how he had looked the last time he had seen him, with his man-hair on his arms and the blemishes on his face. But he also remembers how Caleb had reached out for him, pleading to be allowed to talk to him.

He still loves Caleb. Just like he still loves Kyle and Butters.

Crouching down, Stan takes Liam by his upper arms and holds him still before him. The boy’s head is hanging down, apparently looking at the hands still wringing at the bottom of his shirt. Or maybe down at his own bare feet.

“Liam look at me.”

The boy flinches but as obedient as ever lifts his head to meet Stan’s eyes. His lips are drawn thin as if he were afraid. Guiltily, Stan releases his arms. But Liam stays where he is.

“Did I ever tell you that I liked Caleb more than you?”

One of Liam’s classic shrugs of response. Eyes back down at his shoes. Except, he surprises Stan by adding an almost inaudible confession, “You, you made me wear his clothes, like, like you wanted me to be him since he’s not here. And you have a picture of Caleb on your wall. You don’t have a picture of me.”

“I don’t have any pictures of you,” Stan breathes out, exasperated. “How can I hang a picture of you up that I don’t have? And I only gave you his clothes because yours were wet. You can wear them home, for all I care.”

“Really?” Liam asks, worrying his lip like a puppy on a bone. Stan, against his better judgment, reaches forward and touches his face. He’s as soft and warm as Stan worried he would be. Liam looks at him again, eyes big but no fear apparent. Just worry.

“I thought we had a good time, watching cartoons? Eating junk food? Did you not have a good time?”

“I did,” Liam says quietly. “But you only let me inside because it was raining.”

“I, I know,” Stan admits, because that is true. If it hadn’t been pouring outside then Liam would have been banished to the backyard as usual, like some unwanted dog tied to a falling-apart doghouse. “And I’m sorry. You’re right, that was cruel of me, to not let you come in before. I was just worried what other people would think, but if I was that worried I would have forbidden you from visiting me in the first place.”

“You’ll let me come in from now on?”

“Yes,” Stan concedes, pulling his hand back and letting it rest on his knee. “We can have lunch in the kitchen and maybe watch some television. But you know our deal, you can’t tell anybody about this.”

“I know,” Liam affirms. And Stan knows that it isn’t something he really had to ask the boy to keep secret in the first place. From the fading scars on Liam’s back, Stan knows the boy is already well trained in the art of keeping secrets.

“But my socks are fine, they don’t have holes or anything.”

“They’re not,” Stan insists, his fingers already untying the frayed shoelaces. They’re old, brown with dust, and feel like the tactile equivalent of nails on a chalkboard against Stan’s fingertips. The fact Liam is complaining about what socks to wear but not the fact that Stan is removing his shoes would be laughable if the situation weren’t so surreal. Stan cups the bottom of the heel with one hand and the top of the toe with the other, and tugs. “See what I mean? The heels are threadbare.”

“They’re just socks.”

“No such thing when you’re hiking.”

Stan sits back on his own heels and looks up at the boy sitting on the arm of his couch. The early morning sun, just barely washing over the mountains, cuts through his blinds in strips, painting the boy’s skin in a zebra-like pattern. Or maybe a tiger, with Liam’s golden complexion. His skin is so vibrant, so much healthier looking than Caleb’s alabaster skin. He glances over the boy’s shoulder at the picture of his godson on the wall, feeling that familiar twinge of longing. But beside the portrait is a new one. Of a boy with sun-bleached hair and a warm, inviting tan.

When Liam had brought him the photo, one he had taken and paid to have printed at the local drug store out of his own pocket money, Stan had all but teared up in surprise and appreciation.

“It’s bigger than Caleb’s,” the boy had bragged as if size were the more important thing about a photograph. “And newer. You’ll hang it up, right?”

Stan had responded by immediately going to his junk drawer and fishing out a plastic hook. Liam had all but beamed with pride.

“I can’t wear your socks,” the blond protests now, tucking his barefoot behind the ankle of his other shoe, as if he were trying to hide it from Stan’s touch. “They’re too big.”

“You don’t have to,” Stan assures him. He pulls himself up to his feet, using the couch as a levy. His knees ache, creaking like a rocking chair in a strong wind. Like the one his father used to have on the porch out on the old farm. He’s healed up a lot but he still needs to do some regular stretches to get back to where he had been. “I have a couple pair of Caleb’s old hiking socks here.”

Liam doesn’t seem surprised by this fact. He knows that Stan has some of Caleb’s old clothing around the trailer, he’s known since that rainy day when he had borrowed Caleb’s clothing. But Stan is pretty sure he doesn’t recognize the importance of hiking socks. Hiking socks, or good ones anyway, are made of wool. Itchy, perhaps, but breathable and resistant to moisture. Also shrinkable, under the wrong washing conditions. Which are the only conditions that Heidi Broflovski seems to be able to pull off.

After the first three pairs of Caleb’s socks had been shrunken by that harpy, Stan had started keeping the expensive woolen garments in his car because you never know when an impromptu hike might be in order. Less often than he had expected, sadly. Once Caleb had started to get older and involved in more extracurricular activities, Kyle and his son had both stopped meeting Stan in the woods. But these socks are the ones he just bought a year ago when he had watched over him for that week. The hiking socks had made it into the trailer along with the box of tools, first aid kit, and tissues he kept back there.

The boy’s feet look pale in comparison to the rest of his body. Odd, really. At his age, Stan had spent weeks at a time in nothing but a pair of grimy, blue flip-flops, but Stan isn’t sure if he’s ever seen the boy in a pair. They’re so cheap too. Stan could buy a pair of them for just ten bucks on Amazon, have them here and available for the boy to pad around in within a week.

He makes another mental note to make the purchase. He can’t spoil Liam the way he spoiled Caleb, but Liam is happy with far less. Barley, popsicles, cheap flip-flops.

Liam is happy with the little gray socks. The wool is so heavy they’re nearly as thick through as the boy’s finger. Stan stands back, watching the child tug at the edges, pulling them up until they’re nearly at his knee. Then he jumps down onto Stan’s cheap, rough mauve carpet and flexes his toes, digging them into the short fibers.

“They’re so squishy. I feel like I’m wearing slippers.”

“Yeah,” Stan grins, recognizing that feeling. Usually, only the first few times the socks are worn, before they wear down from pressure and multiple washings. “You don’t need to pull them that high though, you’re not wearing boots.”

“What about poison oak?”

“What?” Stan asks, laughing before he can catch himself. “Why do you think I’d take you hiking somewhere with poison oak?”

“You said this is the first time you’re hiking this trail, maybe you wouldn’t know about it.”

“It’s a well-worn path with good reviews on the All Trail app,” Stan replies. He turns to pick up his hiking pack, grabbing the smaller version of it off the couch as well. “If there was a bunch of poison oak around it would have said in the reviews.”

“Do you even know what poison oak looks like?” Liam presses, looking less than confident with Stan’s nature abilities.

“I’ve been hiking these mountains since I was your age, I could live on wild berries and tubers if I had to,” Stan insists. He holds out the smaller pack to Liam. It’s another one of Caleb’s hand-me-downs from when he was about eight. “If I see any poison oak I’ll let you know.”

“Well, alright,” Liam agrees, still sounding unsure. Stan watches him lick his lips, apprehensively. He reaches for the pack, almost dropping it when he realizes how heavy it is.

“Come on now, I’ve hiked almost every square foot of these hills and never once managed to stumble into poison oak. Did almost get bitten by a rattlesnake once though.”

“Really?”

“Yep,” Stan replies. “Was my dad’s fault. He left our tent unzipped one morning and one of them just slithered right into my sleeping bag. Ever since, whenever I go camping I always roll up my sleeping bag every morning. And lock the tent door closed with a padlock. I suppose that’s overkill, but you’ve never slid into a sleeping bag and felt something move.”

“I’ve never been camping,” Liam reminds him.

Yeah. Yeah. Stan knew that. Of course, he knew that. When would Kenny have time to take his own children camping? And Caleb? Well. Liam gets a lot of experiences through the Broflovski family but Kyle grew out of camping years ago. He grew out of anything outdoorsy years ago. Except for maybe the occasional ski trip or wine tasting, which mostly seemed to be a wine and dine experience for various clients.

Stan tries not to think about his teenage camping trips with Kyle. At the time he would never have guessed such experiences would have an expiration date.

Especially their friendship.

Instead, he ties Liam’s shoes for him, the boy protesting the entire time. But his laces are short and barely thread through the shoes with the heavy socks beneath them. He knows the shoes must be tight but the cushion of the socks will make up for that.

“Alright, let’s go.”

Deja vu. Stan recalls taking Caleb on a similar trip just over a year ago. 

Strange how much can change in just one year.

But somehow, the memory which should make Stan sad to think of now feels like a distant dream. A story lived out through a stranger, not a memory of Stan’s own life. 

He feels content just to have Liam by his side. And Liam is much more of a captive audience than Caleb ever was.

He listens with a solemn expression on his face when Stan shows him different varieties of berries. He happily devours the ones Stan says are safe and avoids the poisonous one with such a level of devotion one would think just touching them would be enough to kill you. They leave his tongue blue.

He stands quiet and still as an abandoned house when Stan tells him to and listens for the call of the birds. He watches where Stan points and repeats their names. He tries to mimic the calls Stan teaches him but stumbles over the unfamiliar way of curling his tongue.

He stops dead in his tracks when Stan tells him to. He nods just the smallest nod at the squirrel or the rabbit or that one deer when he has them pointed out to them. He doesn’t try to take pictures, he doesn’t move. One of the rabbits shuffles within feet of their shoes.

He jumps at the snake that slithers between them, as fast and slippery as a roaring river. Stan is at his side in a moment, arms around his shoulders, watching the animal disappear through the forest floor. “Just a garter snake, nothing to be scared of.” Liam continues to shake for another fifteen minutes and Stan gives him a stick to poke at the ground with, if needed.

When they come to the river, he follows every step Stan takes across the perilous rocks. One of his feet slip on the slimy moss but the boots protect his feet from the water. Stan stops to check the scrape on his calf but there is no blood. 

When they come to the small waterfall, a pale comparison to the one Stan had visited last year, he stares at it with total awe. Stan takes pictures with his old smartphone. He doesn’t have service any longer but he can still transfer the pictures to his computer. Liam stands still and quiet when Stan asks him to pose for a few pictures. He doesn’t pose dramatically like Caleb would. His cheeks flush with embarrassment but he doesn’t fight against Stan’s request.

In every way, the trip feels like a scaled-down version of the hike that Stan had taken Caleb on a year ago. But somehow it feels like more of a win. Especially near the end, as they cross the river once more, and Liam begs to be allowed to just sit by the riverbed for a while and soak his throbbing feet.

Being the hottest part of the day, and not yet wanting to be stuck back on his small plot of land, Stan agrees. It feels spectacular to remove the stiff, heavy hiking boots. The water is cool but it’s summer and the ice had finally drained from the river so it feels refreshing rather than shocking. Liam rolls off the wool socks and stuffs them into his boots beside Stan’s own. His feet are pink and imprinted with the swirling design of the socks on top. There’s still some black tea, bitter and frosty in his thermos, and he pours them both a small cup to sip at as they watch the birds and talk. Liam tells him about the game he’s playing right now, something with dinosaurs that he gets to keep as pets. Stan tells him about how he thought about going into paleontology for a while, before he realized how close such a field would have been to his own father’s speciality.

“Besides,” he drawls, blinking sleepily at the high sun. “If you want to find the good stuff you need to go up to Montana and I had too much of a life here to give up.”

“You don’t now,” Liam points out, cradling the little metal cup in between his palms. “You could go back to school, couldn’t you?”

“And leave you here alone?”

Yes, every part of the trip goes spectacularly. That is until Stan spots the small black dot moving up the back of Liam’s knee, as if trying to escape the shallow stream. It may have been hiding behind his ankle or in his sock before he removed them.

“It’s a tick,” Stan groans, flicking the little insect away. “Fuck. I should’ve sprayed us down with some Off. Come on, let’s hurry back to my place and I’ll check you over.”

Ticks are not to be fooled around with. They can carry Lyme disease, among other things. In the past, Stan had taken care to spray himself and Liam down with chemicals to keep them away, but somehow the thought had entirely slipped his mind this time. He feels like an irresponsible idiot, putting the poor boy in danger like this.

It isn’t until Stan is standing in the middle of his living room with a boy standing before him in only his underwear that Stan realizes how bad this situation looks.

‘It’s okay,’ he tells himself as he turns the boy around, looking over the smooth groove between his shoulder blades. The little space where the dip begs to have lips pressed against satin skin. Just the slightest layer of down covers his upper body, thin and golden. ‘Just one quick look and we’re done.’

Nothing seems to be crawling across the boy’s perfect smooth skin. And Stan knows as long as he finds any of the little pests right away the likelihood of Liam catching anything is minuscule. Ticks latch on for days when they feed and transmission of disease usually takes at least twenty-four hours. He checks his skinny thighs, and the hairless skin under his armpits, and in the charming little fold of his belly button. Despite how scrawny he is, he still has just the slightest poof to his belly, the adorable roundness of youth.

“I’ll clean your clothes for you,” he explains as he checks between each of the boy’s toes. Liam sits at the kitchen table, still in his underwear, patiently waiting through the inspection. Stan kneels before him, the boy’s foot on his knee. “I have that pair of yours here still that you got muddy the other day. Just make sure to bring that other pair back.”

“Okay,” the boy agrees, voice tired but happy. That sort of contented exhaustion that one is only capable of feeling after a long day in the great outdoors. He leans against one hand, supporting himself on his elbow, clearly ready to fall asleep. Stan switches to the other foot, running his finger between each stubby digit. The boy squirms, ticklish. 

Stan gets back to his feet and leans over Liam to expect his hair. The last place he needs to look. He won’t check inside his briefs, that would just be going too far, so he’ll send Liam into the bathroom to check himself in the mirror afterward. First just a quick check through his hair. Easy enough, considering how thin and light the strands are. He lifts the longish hair from the back of his neck first then presses the hair up around his ears, checking inside them as well as he does so. Then he moves backwards, using his own stiff black comb to move the hair aside as his own mother used to do when checking him for lice.

Liam leans into his touch, and Stan smiles, giving the boy’s scalp a few scratches for the fun of it. Liam presses harder, enjoying the sensation of having his hair played with. All kids like having their hair played with. Stan gets it. He loves having his own hair played. He wonders if he could ask the boy to play with his own someday. Not today. The child is falling asleep. But there is nothing harmful about being touched or touching a boy in this way. Why doesn’t he do this more often? Touch Liam like this? In innocent ways?

‘You know why,’ a voice that sounds just like his own sneers inside his head. And yeah, he does. Innocent touches can so easily become non-innocent touches. But physical touch is such a rare thing for him these days.

Maybe it had been easier when Butters had been around. Even when they had stopped having sex with each other it had been nice just to have him around to hug him, hold him. 

“What the fuck are you doing with my son?”

The voice is so close and so sudden that Stan jumps so high he thought he would touch the ceiling. Spinning, he comes face to face, almost nose to nose, with a certain Kenny McCormick.

“Kenny!” he greets, stuttering despite his attempt to stay calm. “I, you’re out of jail?”

“Yes, but it looks like maybe you shouldn’t be,” Kenny replies, voice lower than Stan has ever heard it go. “I told you to stay the fuck away from my kids, Marsh.”

“Dad,” Liam gets out, already on his feet, but Kenny barks at him to stay quiet.

“Kenny, you don’t-”

“Shut the fuck up,” he interrupts, shoving a finger into Stan’s chest. Stan takes a step back, then another, and he’s certain that Kenny is forcing a distance between him and his son. “I fucking trusted you. Knowing what you are, I still trusted you. I should have fucking known. Perverts like you, all you care about is one thing. You act like you’re all innocent and sweet and a victim of society or whatever that BS is. But you’re no different than those sick NAMBLA fucks that tried to molest us as kids.”

Finally, he turns his attention to his son. “Liam, get dressed. We’re going to the police.”

“Kenny-” Stan tries again.

“Shut up, I’m not listening to more of your excuses. I hope this time they let you rot in jail.”

**Chapter 13**

Is this the same room as before?

This is the question Stan finds returning to his mind again and again as his eyes begin to blur and the ache in his shoulders sharpens.

This room is cold, like the room before.

This room is square, like the room before. Four walls. Three chairs. One table. One door. One mirror taking up almost the entire length of one of the four walls. Despite the heat of the room, the mirror gives off the vibe of a frozen lake turned on its side.

Everything around him feels harsh and biting, like the room before. As if every corner of the table is too pointed and the air itself burned.

But the walls in the other room… What color had they been? Stan swears they had been white. Or cream. Or eggshell. Or had he been thinking of another room? Maybe he’s thinking of the room he had stayed in when he had broken his arm. But he had been in that room for so long, surely he would remember that room better than this.  
  
Except, the memories of that room feel nearly as fuzzy as the memories of the first time he had been in the police station. But he had been in that room so much longer? He had been in that room so long he had once memorized the number of tiles on the ceiling and the number of branches on the tree outside the window. And now he cannot even remember the color of the walls.

The walls in this room are a strange seafoam green that for some reason makes Stan feel uneasy. Something about the color feels too...institutional. Like the scrubs at a mental hospital or the equipment of a dental hygienist. The green makes him think of shots and drills and bedpans.  
  
No wonder he’s confused. This room is medicinal, not criminal.  
  
Not like Stan. Stan is more eggshell than seafoam green. Stan is not sick; he is criminal.  
  
Or maybe he isn’t.  
  
At this point, Stan isn’t sure. Touching a boy in his underwear seems like a criminal act. At the time it had seemed normal, paternal even, to look over the child, to care for him like a mother bird tucking her chick beneath her wing. He swears, absolutely swears deep in his own bones, that there had been nothing predatory about his actions. Nothing questionable.  
  
But now. Now.

How many hours have passed since he entered the door to this room? It had been light out when they brought him in and then it was dark and now it’s light again. He knows because he can see the light shining down through the vent. And the birds are singing outside. Early morning birdsong. It can’t be much later than dawn, not with the way the birds are singing, but it’s a new day nevertheless.

No. No, this can’t be the same room. The other room didn’t have a window. Stan would have remembered a window. Stan would remember anything that wasn’t just walls and lights and smudged cookies-and-cream colored floor tiles.  
  
Or maybe there had been a window? And Stan just hadn’t noticed? Had he been facing the opposite way last time? Had his back been turned to the high set window?  
  
Stan had noticed the window after a few minutes this time. Not immediately. It isn’t a large window. More vent than a legitimate sill. Slits carrying in just the barest hints of fresh outside air at dusk. Then the humming of crickets as darkness set it. And then, later, when the crickets had gone quiet, the glow of light as the sun rose.  
  
He hadn’t been here that long last time. When did they let him out? Stan searches for the answer in his muddled brain but he feels like a half-melted ice cream cone lying on a sidewalk. Would he have noticed crickets then? He remembers it had been dark when he had left. Tommy had been outside smoking when he returned. But the crickets always start singing before the sun even fully sets so they had to have been singing that night. Maybe it had been the thudding in his own ears. Could he have heard anything besides his panicked heartbeat that day? Had he been sweating? He thinks he had been sweating. He probably would have not noticed the smell of night dew through such a small opening, not if he had been sweating.  
  
There is no thudding in his ears tonight. Why isn’t he panicking today? He knows he should be but, well. They know. They have known for a long time. And when Clyde looks at Stan with those dark eyes it doesn’t matter anymore. Everybody has known for so long. And Stan is so tired of hiding. He’s so tired of looking over his shoulder. He’s so tired of being quiet.  
  
He wants to talk.  
  
It’s not like last time. Back then, before they came for him, there had been a sense of invincibility. He was in his mid-thirties. After making it that far into life with his secret firmly intact it had seemed like nobody would ever find out the truth about him. He had been an expert at keeping secrets. A professional liar. His true soul kept locked away like a secret name that nobody would ever find.  
  
He had been safe, protected. As safe and protected as a naked baby mouse in its nest, buried among old newspaper and bits of cloth. Dark, surrounded by filth, crawled on by spiders and other vermin, but safe from the outside world.  
  
Until somebody ripped him from his hidey-hole. Until he had been so blinded by the piercing light that he had been able to do little more than squirm under their gaze. Left out on a baking sidewalk for all to see his vulnerable pink flesh.  
  
Exposed. Left out to dry up where anybody could see him, he should have burnt into a black crisp.  
  
But he didn’t lay there on the sidewalk until he died. He had pulled himself up, dragged himself out of harm’s way, and tried to continue on with his life.  
  
It feels like a very long time since he’s been concealed from the blinding sun.  
  
The lights of this room feel like the sun. Stan keeps reaching up to wipe at the sweat welling along his hairline. His throat aches for water. Why are the lights so hot in this room? Don’t the cops get hot? Doesn’t Clyde get hot in his uniform?  
  
It feels like a fever dream.  
  
Or maybe more of a nightmare.  
  
The last year has felt like one ongoing nightmare. Like that nightmare where you realize you’re standing in the middle of class without any clothes on. Except you’ve been standing there for so long, all those dull, dead eyes staring at your naked body for many days, so many weeks, that you no longer care. You become immune to critique.  
  
Stan wishes he could have a real dream right now. Even a nightmare would be better than sitting here.  
  
His eyelids feel so heavy and his shoulders ache. If they would just take him to a cell and lock him away at least he would have a chance to lie down.  
  
Can’t they just let him sleep? He’s told them everything that happened. Everything.  
  
But they still keep asking him what he did to Liam. What he had planned on doing to the boy. How long had he been planning on doing it?  
  
Don’t they understand? He didn’t do anything. He didn’t. He just wanted to take care of the boy; feed him, spoil him, protect him.  
  
(Be around him, touch him, smell him, taste him.)  
  
No, he hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d barely even touched him. He hadn’t stared at him uncomfortably or taken pictures or anything like that. He hadn’t been creepy with him. Liam hadn’t seemed upset at all.  
  
(That was sexual abuse. You undressed a small boy and paraded him around. Do you think he would have told you if he was upset?)  
  
Why would Liam keep coming back if he was scared of Stan, though? Intent is what makes it abuse. Stan hadn’t intended to do anything, he was just being a good guardian.  
  
(You’re a fucking pedophile! You would have jerked off to the memories of him the moment he was gone! You were creating your own mental child porn!)  
  
He hadn’t been! That hadn’t been his intention. He was like a father taking care of a child. Nobody would bat an eye at a parent checking their kid for parasites!  
  
(But he isn’t your son, he’s a cute little boy you’ve masturbated to more than once.)  
  
So what? If it had been an adult woman who he had jerked off to before, just checking her for ticks wouldn’t have been a crime, right?  
  
(But naked pictures of adult women aren’t illegal.)  
  
He wasn’t naked though. Stan hadn’t seen...that part of him. Maybe a bit of a cute little boy bulge but-  
  
(He had been in his underwear you pervert, he was a little boy wearing nothing but his little boy briefs and you were pawing at him like a cat batting around its prey.)  
  
No! They keep saying he was grooming Liam. As if that is something somebody could do accidentally without realizing it. He knows he wasn’t doing that. He was just giving the boy somebody to rely on, somebody he could trust.  
  
(Somebody he could trust to undress him and rape him with his eyes.)  
  
That wasn’t his intent!  
  
(And if somebody shoots somebody in the leg and they die from shock does that not make it murder? Just because it was their intent to only maim them for life?)  
  
But he didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to.  
  
(You knew it was dangerous to allow him around you and you still let him come.)  
  
There’s a pressure directly behind Stan’s eyelids. He presses his palms against them and just holds them there. It helps, a bit. But Stan’s head still hurts. And it does nothing for his exhaustion. When he lets his hands fall back onto the table the pressure returns, shooting to his brain once more and worsening his headache.  
  
His eyelids droop. The darkness feels like a cold shower on a hot day. His neck droops. His head droops. His body begins to droop.  
  
The panic-inducing sensation of falling jolts him back awake. He flails for a second, arms reaching for nothing. The chair scrapes, balancing for a second on two legs before crashing back down with a wooden thud.  
  
There’s drool at the corner of his mouth. The seats across from him are empty. Heavy wooden things like Stan’s own. Marked up and chipped.  
  
Where did the cops go?  
  
Where did Clyde go?  
  
Stan turns his head, expecting to see them standing to the side but the room is empty.  
  
Had they ever even been there? Was that all a dream? Has he been alone this whole time? Maybe nobody was here. Maybe nobody asked him those questions. Nobody that didn’t exist inside his own mind, anyway. Maybe he’s been waiting all night for somebody to come in and talk to him. Maybe that’s their strategy, wear him down enough into sheer exhaustion that he’ll gladly confess.  
  
He can’t confess to something he didn’t do.  
  
Stan wishes they’d at least turn off the lights. That would help his headache. And he’s thirsty. There’s a glass of water beside him but he hasn’t touched it. He’s afraid of what might happen if he asks to be taken to the bathroom. But now he stares at it. It’s been there so long it has turned warm and the condensation on the outside has dried. There’s a small pile of minerals on the bottom of the cup, hard water settled, but still. Stan swallows and it hurts. There is no moisture left in his mouth and the water is tempting him. What’s the point? They’ll have to take him somewhere eventually.  
  
Before he reaches for the glass, the door opens.  
  
Stan doesn’t see the door actually swing open; he’s too worn out to even turn his head. But he hears it. The sucking sound of the door fighting against the pull of the air conditioner. The flood of coldness that follows. It feels icy on Stan’s damp skin and so much more welcoming than the hot stuffiness of this room. Chin still down, almost touching his chest, he looks up with a bare shift of his eyes and sees an expensive, sleek-looking pencil skirt in pencil-lead gray. A matching blazer, purple blouse neatly pressed beneath it. Deep purple, like the tangy-sweet purple of Concord grape juice. The square-rimmed glasses shine for a second beneath the harsh lighting and Stan adverts his eyes. Just that shimmer hurts.  
  
“Please shut off those obnoxious heat lamps,” the woman calls towards the mirror to the side of the sea-foam room. Two-way. Stan knew that, why else would they have a mirror here? Just so people can look at themselves and feel guilty enough by their own appearance to confess?  
  
If you could be shamed into confessing that easily you’d just do it, mirror or no mirror.  
  
The glaring overhead lights blink off. For some reason that feels unsatisfactory to Stan. It should have been accompanied by a thud as if somebody were pressing down a giant switch. Like when they turned all the lights off in the first Jurassic Park movie.  
  
Hey, Stan! Stan! Remember when your biggest fear in life was being eaten by a prehistoric movie monster? Not of being outed? Or beaten? Or locked away for life? When a giant puppet with rubber claws was the scariest thing in the world?  
  
Still, the absence of the hot, blinding light is a relief. Stan can feel his eyes spasming behind his lids as if confused by the sudden change. He read once that eyes twitch because of parasites in the eyelashes. Is that true? If it is, does that mean the light bothers them as well? Or is it the dark they dislike?  
  
The sweat is already cooling beneath his collar, down the groove of his spine. When he shifts he can feel the dampness down the crack of his ass. The heavy chair doesn’t move but it squeaks nonetheless, the humid, hot air of the room warping the old wood.  
  
When Stan lifts his arm, an imprint of sweat remains on the table before him.  
  
“So I see you got the, uh,” Stan gestures to his own chest, indicating the change from the B cups the woman had still been sporting in her mid-twenties. He regrets the action a second later, knowing that it wasn’t something you say to a woman, but how long has it been since he slept? He can’t be blamed for being a little out of it.  
  
Wendy Testaburger scowls as she approaches him. She sets her briefcase on the table between them and starts shuffling through the papers. Her skin is dry. Soft and pale as if dusted with baby powder. Stan watches her, studying her profile, waiting for her to address him. No acknowledgment of Stan’s presence follows. Definitely no acknowledgment of the size of her assumedly expensive implants.  
  
He continues watching her, aware that she seems to be uncomfortable with his gaze as she finally looks up at him for just a second. Her eyelashes are dark against her cheek. Then her eyes are back toward the papers.  
  
Stan, despite his present state of mental incompetence, wonders why Wendy is here. She’s a lawyer, he knows that, but last time he had heard she hadn’t joined the DA’s office or whatever you call it. That’s who will prosecute him, right? The DA?  
  
Okay, so most of his knowledge on the court system he may have picked up from reruns of SVU. Until recently, anyway. That had seemed like a good thing, really, to have had that little interaction with the real thing. Nobody wants to be required to understand the workings of the United States legal system. That is until you’re sitting in a police station with no real idea of how the justice system works and are facing possible life in prison.  
  
Do they send child molesters to prison for life?  
  
Stan doesn’t think they execute them, but he supposes that would still be “for life.”  
  
“Are you the one prosecuting me?” he asks, finally, growing anxious by the sounds of ruffling papers.  
  
Wendy huffs angrily and slams her briefcase shut once more, muttering about being unable to find some form H18 or something along those lines. Her mouth is drawn tight. She’s wearing lipstick. Stan feels unreasonably happy over the fact she would go through the trouble for him of putting on lipstick.  
  
“No, I’m representing you, you dumbfuck. You’re going to be arraigned in a couple hours. I need to get you ready for court.”  
  
“You’re representing me?” Stan asks in disbelief. Wendy Testaburger, lawyer-extraordinaire, worth her weight in gold. Wendy Testaburger, top of her class at law school at some ivy league school back east. Wendy Testaburger, his ex-girlfriend. Wendy, the little who he had given his first kiss to. Has come to his aid? “So you believe me? You believe I’m innocent?”  
  
“Absolutely not,” she scoffs, finally sitting down across from him. Somehow, despite her frantic foraging through her papers, she still looks utterly perfect, not a hair out of place. But she was always like that, wasn’t she? Has been since he was an innocent little boy with an innocent schoolyard crush. It’s easy to see how he thought he had been in love with her back then. Children have difficulties, sometimes, telling the difference between admiration and genuine romantic feelings, and even back then she had been worth admiring. Intelligent, beautiful, perfect, fierce. Another ex Stan had disappointed with his subpar excuse for a life. “But somebody has to defend you and Butters asked me to do it. I’m doing this as a favor to an overly sweet man with a heart of gold and unending hope in humanity. Not for you.”  
  
“Alright,” Stan agrees, knowing better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. He still isn’t holding onto much hope of leaving this building a free man, but a sliver of hope is better than none at all. He licks his lips, forgetting how dry his mouth is until the dry sandpaper-tongue scrapes his thin lips. “What’s, what’s our strategy going to be?”  
  
“My strategy,” Wendy corrects, scowling at Stan. “My strategy is to prove you were set up. But for today all we need is to set a court date and get you out on bail. We’ll discuss the rest after arraignment.”  
  
“Bail? But I, I don’t have that much. Only like five hundred in the bank. Will that be enough?”  
  
“It’s already taken care of,” Wendy assures him. Then she sighs and something about her seems to relax. Her posture is no less perfect. Her head is still straight. But something about the tenseness in her shoulders eases. “But somebody will be keeping an eye on you at all times to make sure you don’t try to skip out on bail.”  
  


  
  
  
The fact Butters is the one who put up the money to cover Stan’s bail isn’t surprising. It’s sad, but it isn’t surprising. Because, really, who else possibly would do such a kind-hearted thing?  
  
Stan knows he probably owes Butters his life. He knows, given his reputation, he wouldn’t have survived one night in jail. He tells Butters this as he latches onto him, the tears coming on their own. He hasn’t seen Butters in months and just being held by him feels like a relief. Skin to skin contact is like a drug shot directly into Stan’s veins. He holds onto Butters for a long time. Well, maybe five minutes, which feels like a long time. But by the time the sobbing stops he feels so exhausted and worn out he is incapable of doing much more than allowing Butters to lead him back to his old bedroom. It looks different now, and there’s a couch already made up with a blanket and pillow for him.  
  
Stan doesn’t even remember making it to the couch.  
  
When he wakes up, his stomach feels like it’s full of live snakes. It moves and gurgles and he looks down, expecting to see bodies squirming inside. Part nerves. Part hunger. He hasn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. Not since the mid-hike meal on the hill. Still, he lays on the couch for a while, just listening to the sounds of the house. It takes him a minute to recognize the rumble and the familiar weight on his thigh until he tries to move and feels the squirm on his thighs. Cougar looks up at him, blinking lazily, before closing her eyes once more.  
  
Stan reaches out and pets her, stroking her soft fur for several long minutes.  
  
Eventually, though, hunger gets the better of him. It’s already late afternoon, judging by the shadows. Out of instinct, Stan reaches for his phone to check the time, but they took that away from him. No access to the internet allowed, that had been the order. As if Stan had been caught with child porn or doing something else illegal online. He's not sure if Butters still has the same Wifi password anyway.  
  
They’re both in the living room when Stan finally emerges. Curled up together on the couch, talking in quiet voices and sharing glasses of wine. White wine. Not Stan’s favorite, by far, but the sight makes him swallow anyway.  
  
No alcohol. Another condition of his release.  
  
They don’t notice him immediately. Butters looks good. Better than last time Stan saw him, more rested. The worry bags under his eyes, never fully vanishing in all the years Stan has known him, at least seem smaller than they had once been. But the blond’s a worrier by nature and they will probably be there until the day he dies.  
  
Somehow, Stan isn’t surprised at all by the sight in front of him. The revelation that Butters and Wendy have somehow gotten back together seems more natural than surprising. Their relationship in high school had never made in sense, they had seemed about the most unconventional couple in a school made up of nothing but unconventional couples, but in a way had seemed like the most likely to continue.   
  
It’s strange to see how comfortable Wendy is with Butters, how affectionate. They aren’t exchanging Eskimo kisses and baby-talking each other. They’re not even cuddling, not really. They’re sitting together, barely touch hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and the quick press of her fingertips to his knee would be written off with any other woman. A quick touch for emphasis. But Wendy is not affectionate in the way some women are affectionate.  
  
When they sit down at the kitchen table, Butters takes the spot between them, looking about as comfortable as a baby gazelle between a lion and a hyena. Stan’s the hyena. But he would never fight Wendy for her scraps. Stan is extremely fond of Butters but he has no wish to possess him.  
  
There had been leftover Chinese in the fridge but the only thing Stan can eat is the vegetable fried rice and some egg rolls. Butters tries to offer him some crab rangoons as well, not understanding the difference between crab and mussels. It doesn’t matter, the fried rice is enough. He eats alone while he waits for the other two to join him. Something about that makes him sad. He’s eaten so many meals alone the last few months and he had hoped for Butters, at least, to join him, but he disappears into the bedroom with Wendy while Stan eats. Reappearing just as Stan is finished, right on time to whisk the greasy plate away and take his spot beside him. Wendy is the last to join them.  
  
“I didn’t do it,” Stan starts off. Before Wendy is already interrupting him.  
  
“Stan, shut up,” she says, glasses back on, the casual easiness from the couch once more replaced by icy professionalism. “I don’t want you to tell me what you did to that boy. I don’t want to know. I don’t need to know that. If you tell me what you did then I have to tell the truth in court about it so just keep it to yourself.”  
  
“But I didn’t-”  
  
“Stan,” Wendy interrupts again, voice as low and dangerous as an angry pitbull. He closes his mouth again. He’s well-rested now. Or at least more so than he was earlier. And he’s fed. His head is clearer and he knows when to shut up.  
  
Wendy takes out a notebook. It’s already covered with handwritten words. Something about that seems so juvenile that Stan can’t help but laugh. The idea of Wendy writing her notes in a paper notebook like they were back in tenth-grade history together seems absurd. She glares at him and he quiets, coughing. His mouth feels greasy with sesame oil.  
  
“So, um,” Stan stammers. He rubs at the table absently with his thumb. “You said we were going to say I was set up? I think?”  
  
“Yes,” Wendy confirms. She’s holding a pencil in her hand and Stan watches her make a few marks beside some of the words in the notebook. He tries to read them from where he is but he’s at a bad angle and the handwriting is in cursive, difficult to see from this far. “I’m going to argue that you were purposely put in a compromising position only so you could be caught and accused of a crime you didn’t commit. What I need to establish is that this was a conspiracy cooked up by Clyde Donovan and Kenny McCormick to frame you. I think it’s despicable that they would put that boy in danger just to lock you away. Like dangling a piece of meat in front of a hungry lion. Either way, they are just as responsible as you for whatever you did to that child.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Stan asks, confused. He has no idea what she’s talking about. Clyde? Kenny? “You can’t just make stuff up about people, Wendy.”  
  
“She’s not making stuff up,” Butters says, speaking up. Stan glances at him, he’s rubbing his knuckles together.  
  
“Stan, don’t you get it?” Wendy asks, and God. Does she have to speak to him like this? Like he is a criminal? Like they were never friends? Like he’s just another client? Can’t she speak kindly to him just once? “Everybody is talking about it around town. Kenny sent his son over there for the explicit purpose of framing you.”  
  
“Kenny? Kenny’s my friend,” Stan protests, refusing to believe it. Because Kenny has been one of the few people in the entire town to stand up for him. “Whoever told you that is lying. He wouldn’t do anything like that.”  
  
“Stan,” Butters says, his voice barely a whisper, as if he were afraid to speak up. “I, I’m the one who told Wendy about it. I, I heard Kenny telling Craig about it at the dog park. I mean. I didn’t hear it all, they stopped talking when they noticed me. But I think. I mean, it sounded like Kenny made a deal with Clyde. To avoid getting charged with drug possession.”  
  
Stan hates to admit it, but he can’t say he’s really that surprised that Kenny would sell him out to save his own ass.


End file.
